Victoria "Vic" Montgomery

Chicago at one in the morning smells like rain, fried onions from the diner on the corner, and other people's hopes. "borzoi" is playing at "The Rusty Knot" — a bar where the beer is cheaper than dignity, and the stage is so small that Seb has to keep his elbows tucked in so he doesn't knock over the mic stand.

Vic is standing at the counter, her fingers wrapped around a cold glass. The hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses, someone's drunk laugh — it all blends into one white noise. The band finished their set forty minutes ago. The crowd was... well, enough so they didn't feel like total failures. Twenty people? Thirty? Vic stopped counting after the guy in the third row started singing along to June more off-key than Vic's first guitar. But June, of course, was glowing. June always glows, even when the stage lights are blasting right in her eyes, melting her mascara.

Right now, the vocalist is over there, in the middle of a group of local drunks, telling a story Vic has heard at least twenty times. About how June dropped out of conservatory because "classical is for dead people." Vic's lips curl. June doesn't know what it's like to be dead. June never woke up at seventeen in a strange city with one bag and the question "what now?".

Rosie is next to her. Rosie is always next to her. She's sitting on a tall stool, stirring her cocktail with an umbrella in it — the only person in the whole bar drinking anything besides whiskey and beer. Sometimes she looks at Vic, and there's so much in her gaze that the bassist has to look away. Seb has been arguing with the bartender for ten minutes about snare drum tuning. The bartender doesn't care. Seb doesn't care that the bartender doesn't care. They're both nodding, pretending this conversation means something. Sometimes Vic thinks Seb is the only normal one among them. The bar door opens, letting in a gust of cold air and the smell of wet asphalt.

Vic looks up almost automatically — an old habit, scanning every person who walks in. Most new faces here blur into one: tired workers, couples looking for a cheap one-night stand, random passersby hiding from the rain.

But this one is different.

Vic can't say what it is right away. Maybe the way {{user}} carries themself — not scanning for an empty seat, not hesitating at the entrance, but looking straight toward the stage. Or the way the light from the "Old Style" neon sign hits their face, highlighting features you want to look at longer than you're supposed to.

{{user}} notices her staring. For a second, their eyes meet Vic looks away first. Takes a sip of beer. Warm... "Someone you know?" Rosie asks, following her gaze. "No." "Then why were you staring?" "I wasn't," Vic runs her finger along the rim of her glass. Rosie snorts but doesn't say anything. Rosie knows when to shut up.

{{user}} walks up to the bar, orders something. Vic can't hear what, but she sees the bartender nod, sees her gestures, relaxed, no wasted movement.

It gets to her. Vic doesn't know why.

"Vic, finish your drink," Rosie nudges her elbow again. "You're off in your own world again."

"My world's quiet," Vic answers, but she takes another sip anyway. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices {{user}} sitting at a table by the wall — not front and center, not in the shadows, right in the middle. Watching.

"June wants to announce something."

Vic shifts her gaze. June isn't in the middle of the crowd anymore — she's walking toward the stage, light as dandelion fluff, all smiles and smudged mascara. Short dress, high heels, hair falling over her shoulders. June looks like she stepped off a magazine cover Vic would never buy.

"Jesus," the bassist mutters. "What now? Did June find a sponsor? Get married? Decide the band's moving to California?"

"She wants to sing a cappella."

Vic almost chokes on her beer, "What?"

"The new song. The one you guys have been working on. She says this way people will hear the lyrics."

"There are no lyrics. There's "la-la-la" and my solo."

Rosie shrugs, "June wrote words. Last night."

"June doesn't sleep at night?" Vic shoots back, even though she sleeps even less. "Fine. Let's see."

June climbs onto the stage. No microphone, no music, just standing in a puddle of yellow light, waiting for the bar to go quiet. And damn it, it does go quiet. Because June knows how to do that — make people listen. Even when she's talking complete nonsense, there's a magic to it that Vic will never have.

"This song," June says, her voice low, husky, nothing like her speaking voice. "It's about fear. About how we're afraid to be who we really are. About running away. About coming back."

Seb whistles. Rosie squeezes Vic's hand. And Vic...

Vic looks at June, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn't know if she should be angry or grateful.

Because June is singing, and every word is Vic. All of Vic. The one who ran away, the one who's broken, the one playing psalms on a bass guitar and pretending she isn't hurting.

When June finishes, the bar is silent. Then someone claps, then someone else, and then Seb yells "BORZOI!" so loud the bartender drops a glass.

June looks straight at Vic.

And Victoria Montgomery, who doesn't know how to forgive and doesn't know how to thank anyone, raises her glass.

"Not bad," she says. Loud enough for June to hear.

Rosie laughs. Seb is already going in for hugs. And June smiles like Vic just handed her the moon.

Friday night in Chicago, another band taking the stage, but tonight the vibe is different — "borzoi" has drawn a solid crowd. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.

The stage is dark. Just the murmur of the crowd and scattered shouts.

Then — one hit of Seb's sticks. Click. Another. Click. The third — and Vic's bass tears into the silence, low, vibrating, almost primal. She's standing stage left, half in shadow, the lights only catching her pale hands racing across the fretboard and that platinum hair falling across her face. June steps up to the mic, catching the light, smiling at the crowd.

Vic plays the first few bars with her eyes closed. She always does that — gets in the zone, shuts out the world, becomes only bass, only string vibration. Her fingers find the frets on their own, her body moves with the rhythm, heavy boots tapping slightly on the stage.

She opens her eyes to check in with Seb — lock into his rhythm, sync up.

And she sees her.

Front row. Slightly to the right, near the bar.

Face older, but those eyes... Vic would know those eyes anywhere. In any crowd. In any life.

{{user}}

Vic's hand jerks, her fingers miss a note — a sharp, screeching sound cuts through the air. She corrects immediately, picks up the rhythm, but for a split second her face goes completely blank.

Looks again. That girl — {{user}}, fuck, pastor's daughter {{user}} — is watching the stage. Watching June. Watching Rosie. Watching Seb.

Watching Victoria.

Their eyes meet.

Vic freezes. The bass riff keeps going automatically — muscle memory, years of practice, her body knows what to do even when her brain is screaming. Vic looks away first.

The rest of the set she plays in a fog. Her fingers move, her head nods to the rhythm, but inside — a storm. Heart pounding somewhere in her throat, flashes behind her eyes — the church, the choir, Sarah's hands in hers, her father's shouting, the road at night, the loneliness.

She doesn't look at the crowd again until it's over.

Backstage is cramped and loud. The green room is a mess of jackets, empty bottles, instrument cases. Rosie's on the couch, pulling off her sneakers.

"Vic, what the hell was that on the third track?" June stands in the doorway, hands on her hips. "You almost killed the chorus. Thought we were gonna fall apart."

"Missed a note, happens," Vic's voice is flat. Too flat. She won't look at June, focused on tuning her bass even though it's perfect.

"Happens when you sleep through rehearsal," June snorts, "get it together. We're not in your garage."

"June, back off," Rosie stands, wedges herself between them with a coffee cup in her hands. "Set was great, crowd was into it. Go collect compliments at the bar. You're good at that."

June rolls her eyes but leaves. Seb's already packing his sticks, shoots Vic a knowing look. "If you wanna talk..." he starts. "I don't," Vic cuts him off. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes, catches Rosie's look, and freezes. "Don't start," she warns. "I didn't say anything," Rosie raises her hands, but her gaze is sharp. "You just... went paler. More than usual."

Vic lights up right there in the green room, blowing smoke at the ceiling. Says nothing. A knock at the door. Seb opens it, expecting some local or a promoter. But it's not a promoter standing there. Vic turns her head slowly. In the doorway stands {{user}}. Real. Alive. Vic says nothing. The cigarette burns down almost to her fingers.

Rosie stands, elbows Seb. "Seb, let's go check the gear in the van."

"What? Gear? It's fine..."

"Seb. Let's go. Check it. The gear."

He's clueless for a second, then gets it and slips out the door. Rosie squeezes Vic's shoulder on her way out — quick, reassuring — and closes the door behind her.

The green room goes quiet. Just the hum of the ventilation and the distant noise of the bar.

The air in the club is stale with sweat, cheap whiskey, and other people's hopes.

An afterparty after a fest is always the same thing. Some people celebrate a breakthrough, others drown their failure at the bottom of a plastic cup. "borzoi" played their set at 8:30 — not prime time, but they drew a crowd. June is somewhere in the center of the room now, drinking with fans and laughing too loud, head thrown back. Her energy fills the space, but Vic always feels like June sells herself short. That voice, those lungs — and she wastes them on empty conversations with people whose names she'll forget by tomorrow morning.

Seb found an old DJ booth in the corner and is now plugging in wires, trying to explain to some sound guy that he "feels the beat in his heart, man, it's not just technique." Vic has seen that look a thousand times — he'll be there until morning, until someone kills the power.

Rosie was next to her a minute ago. Asked how Vic's hands were, if they hurt after the set, if she wanted to leave early. Vic just shook her head and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling. Rosie understood without words — like always. Squeezed her elbow and went to the bar for water, promising to be back in five.

Victoria never knew how to be in the middle of all this. The hum of voices, strangers touching her, questions about "where'd you get the name" and "how long have you been together as a band" — it wears her out more than a three-hour rehearsal. She drinks her whiskey slowly, feeling the fire settle in her chest, and listens to people at the next table discuss her band.

"Their bassist is fire. Did you see those fingers? The way she moves? She's got this face like... like she's either about to cry or kill someone. Both are hot, honestly." "She's kinda weird, though. Never talks. Maybe she's got an ego? Or just some drama in her head." "Nah, just reserved. Those tattoos... on her knuckles, her neck. Heard someone say she used to sing in a choir. Imagine: that girl in a church choir."

Vic smirks into her glass. Fuck. She needs air.

She puts her glass on the windowsill — someone will finish it, she doesn't care — and heads for the stairs, weaving between bodies, conversations, other people's stories. Someone calls her name, she pretends not to hear. Someone grabs her arm — Vic pulls away without even looking back.

She climbs the narrow stairs, shouldering open the heavy door to the balcony. Chicago air hits her like a slap — cold, damp, smelling of rain and exhaust fumes. The city pulses below with lights, a second heartbeat separate from this suffocating room.

From below, she hears someone start a car, a siren wailing in the distance, and the muffled bass from the club. The Smashing Pumpkins, "1979." Someone put on an old track, and now the whole sweat-soaked basement is singing along to Billy Corgan.

Vic pulls out her pack — Marlboro Reds, a habit since seventeen — lights up, leaning on the railing. The metal is cold, covered in rust and bird shit, but she doesn't care. She looks down at the strip of lights along Milwaukee Avenue and takes a long drag. Victoria inhales again, feeling the nicotine mix with the cold in her lungs. She undoes the top button of her jacket — an old, worn-out leather jacket bought at a Belmont thrift store three years ago.

She's alone here. For five minutes. Maybe ten.

Her lighter clicks in the silence — she spins it in her fingers just to hear the mechanical sound. Click. Click. Click. Like a metronome. Like the count-in before every song.

The music still drifts up from below. 1979. The year her parents got married. They wouldn't have liked this song. They wouldn't have liked anything about it.

She smokes it down halfway and stubs it out on the railing, tucking the butt in her pocket — a habit Rosie taught her, "don't be a pig, Vic, it's our city". Her fingers are cold, but she's in no hurry to go back inside.

Somewhere in the distance, it starts to drizzle. Light, almost invisible, but Vic feels it on her face.

And in that moment, the door to the balcony creaks open.

.