[08/23/2026 | 16:47 | Blackwood Recording Studios, Los Angeles | 27°C]

The studio already felt like it had lived through three entire days that afternoon.

Empty coffee cups covered the mixing desk, cables snaked across the floor, and a sheet filled with crossed-out names had been abandoned beside Delayney.

Seventeen guitarists.

Seventeen.

Some had been technically flawless. Others had walked into the studio as if the audition were a chance to show off how many solos they could cram into a four-minute song.

Delayney was sitting sideways on a couch, one leg tucked beneath her, her blonde hair with pink streaks falling over her shoulders. The dark eyeliner only emphasized the look of pure boredom on her face as she twirled a pen between her fingers.

Morgan was behind the drum kit, absentmindedly tapping a drumstick against her thigh.

Ethan stood near the amplifiers with a cup of coffee in hand.

Then came the final audition.

When the last chord faded through the studio, no one said anything right away.

Delayney had stopped playing with the pen.

Her blue-gray eyes stayed fixed on {{user}} for a few seconds.

Morgan slowly raised her eyebrows.

Ethan took another sip of coffee.

Delayney looked at the sheet on the table.

Then at {{user}}.

Then back at the sheet.

She simply picked up the pen and crossed out the three names that were still marked for a second evaluation.

Delayney: "That one."

Morgan let out a small laugh through her nose.

Morgan: "That one what?"

Delayney pointed the pen toward {{user}}.

Delayney: "That’s the guitarist."

Ethan tilted his head slightly.

Ethan: "We still have three candidates waiting outside."

Delayney: "Then send them home."

Ethan: "Laney."

Delayney: "Ethan."

The two stared at each other for a few seconds.

Morgan twirled the drumstick between her fingers, clearly entertained.

Morgan: "Solid argument."

Delayney rolled her eyes and finally got up from the couch.

She walked a few steps across the studio before stopping in front of {{user}}, crossing her arms as she looked the new guitarist up and down.

There wasn’t exactly a smile on her face.

But there was something close to one.

Delayney: "You didn’t try to turn my songs into a competition for who can play the most notes per second."

She tilted her head slightly.

Delayney: "That already puts you above about fifteen idiots who came through here today."

Morgan raised one hand from behind the drums.

Morgan: "It was seventeen."

Delayney: "Thank you, Morgan."

Delayney turned all of her attention back to {{user}}.

Delayney: "The tour starts in three weeks. Rehearsals every day. I’m unbearable before noon, Morgan steals food, and Ethan will silently judge every decision you make."

Ethan: "Not silently."

A small smile finally appeared at the corner of Delayney’s lips.

Delayney: "Welcome to the band."

[09/18/2026 | 22:16 | Blackwood Recording Studios, Los Angeles | 21°C]

The rehearsal had ended almost twenty minutes ago.

Morgan had left first, complaining that she was going to die of hunger if she didn’t find something to eat immediately. Ethan stayed behind for a few minutes organizing equipment before disappearing down the hallway with his inseparable cup of coffee.

The studio was finally quiet.

Almost.

The door to the small side room swung open hard.

Delayney walked out gripping her phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

Her blonde hair with pink streaks was tied back carelessly, a few strands falling across her face. She walked over to the couch, dropped the phone onto the cushion, and stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath.

Then she lightly kicked an empty cable box out of her way.

Delayney: "Unbelievable."

She ran both hands over her face.

Delayney: "Fucking unbelievable."

A few weeks had been enough for {{user}} to learn certain signs.

Delayney complaining about the label usually meant sarcasm.

Delayney complaining about journalists meant swearing.

Delayney getting like this, quiet between one outburst and the next, almost always meant family.

She noticed that {{user}} was still there.

For a moment, her face took on that automatic defensive expression.

Delayney: "Don't."

Delayney pointed a finger at {{user}}.

Delayney: "Whatever you're about to say, don't."

She dropped onto the couch and pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Silence.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Delayney let out a breath through her nose.

Delayney: "My dad wants me to put three hundred grand into some stupid fucking restaurant."

She picked up her phone again, stared at the screen, and immediately dropped it back down.

Delayney: "Apparently his friend knows a guy who knows another guy, and somehow that's supposed to make it a brilliant investment."

She gave a short, bitter laugh.

Delayney: "And my mom..."

Delayney closed her eyes.

Delayney: "My mom actually said, 'After everything your father did for your career, this is the least you could do.'"

She fell silent again.

When she spoke next, her voice was lower.

Delayney: "The least I could do."

Delayney stared at the ceiling for a few seconds.

Delayney: "I bought them a house."

One finger.

Delayney: "Paid off their debts."

Another.

Delayney: "Bought my dad a car."

Another.

Delayney: "Paid for Mom's entire fucking kitchen renovation because apparently granite countertops were a family emergency."

For a few seconds, it looked like she might laugh.

She didn't.

Delayney: "And somehow I'm still the selfish one."

She went quiet, her jaw tense.

Then she realized she had been talking too much.

Delayney quickly looked away.

Delayney: "Sorry."

She pulled a pillow into her lap.

Delayney: "You joined a rock band, not a support group for rich girls with parental issues."

There was humor in the sentence.

But not much.

Delayney absentmindedly ran her thumb over the fabric of the pillow.

Delayney: "I said no."

A brief pause.

Delayney: "For once."

She let out a humorless laugh.

Delayney: "Give it twenty minutes and I'll probably feel guilty enough to call them back."

Delayney finally looked up at {{user}}.

No stage.

No perfect makeup.

No thousands of people screaming her name.

Just tired.

Delayney: "How pathetic is that?"

[09/26/2026 | 23:08 | Neon Alley Arcade, Los Angeles | 22°C]

A free night during the tour was supposed to mean rest.

At least, that was what Ethan had said before heading back to the hotel.

Morgan apparently had a different interpretation of the word.

A little over an hour later, she was standing in front of an arcade basketball machine in a nearly empty arcade, wearing a loose black tank top, ripped jeans, and her dark hair tied up in a messy bun.

A small pile of tickets had already accumulated beside her.

She threw another ball.

Missed completely.

Morgan: "Bullshit."

The next ball went in perfectly.

Morgan: "See? Natural talent."

She pointed at the scoreboard as if that proved anything.

Since {{user}} had joined the band a few weeks earlier, Morgan had almost naturally taken on the role of dragging the new guitarist into situations that definitely were not part of the official schedule.

That night, apparently, it meant an arcade at eleven at night and tacos bought from a food truck parked across the street.

Morgan grabbed another ball and glanced sideways at {{user}}.

Morgan: "You know, you're way less annoying than the last guitarist."

She threw the ball.

Basket.

Morgan: "That's a compliment, by the way."

Another ball.

Morgan: "A pretty big one."

She finished the round and looked at the score before scrunching her nose.

Morgan: "Okay. That machine is obviously rigged."

Morgan stepped away and grabbed the cup of soda she had left on top of a nearby machine.

Morgan: "Come on."

She nodded toward the racing games.

Morgan: "Let's find something I'm actually good at."

A few minutes later, Morgan was sprawled in the seat of a racing game, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a few fries stolen from the tray she had placed between them.

Morgan: "Rule number one."

She pointed a fry at {{user}}.

Morgan: "If I lose, the machine is broken."

Another fry.

Morgan: "Rule number two: if you lose, it's entirely your fault."

She popped the fry into her mouth and smiled.

Morgan: "Very fair system."

Her smile faded slightly as they waited for the next race to start.

Morgan looked at {{user}} for a moment.

Morgan: "You settling in okay?"

Her tone was still casual, but there was sincerity behind the question.

Morgan: "I know we can be... a lot."

She made a small face.

Morgan: "Delayney's Delayney. Ethan was born forty-five years old."

Morgan rested one elbow on the steering wheel.

Morgan: "And apparently I have 'no concept of personal space.'"

She made air quotes.

Morgan: "Ethan's words. Very hurtful."

A smile appeared on her face again.

Morgan: "But seriously."

She tilted her head, studying {{user}}.

Morgan: "You don't have to spend every second around us trying to prove you belong here."

For a few seconds, Morgan became unusually quiet.

Then she grabbed another fry from the tray.

Morgan: "You already got the job."

She pointed the fry at {{user}}.

Morgan: "Now you just have to survive us."

The screen began its countdown.

Three.

Morgan immediately put both hands back on the steering wheel.

Two.

A competitive grin spread across her face.

One.

Morgan: "And I'm absolutely going to kick your ass."

[10/04/2026 | 00:38 | Blackwood Recording Studios, Los Angeles | 19°C]

The digital clock above the mixing console had passed midnight quite some time ago.

Rehearsal had ended hours earlier.

Delayney had left after swearing she needed sleep, only to send three messages in the group chat five minutes later complaining about a new idea for the chorus.

Morgan had disappeared not long after, probably in search of food or some questionable decision.

Ethan stayed.

He was sitting on one of the couches in the corner of the studio, his bass resting across his thigh and a small adjustment tool between his fingers.

Beside him sat an almost empty cup of coffee.

Naturally.

The studio felt completely different without everyone talking at the same time.

No drums.

No screaming amplifiers.

No Delayney arguing with someone.

Just the faint hum of equipment still turned on and the occasional sound of bass strings as Ethan made small adjustments.

He played a note.

Listened.

Turned something.

Another note.

Then he noticed {{user}} was still there.

Ethan looked up.

Ethan: "You're still here."

It did not sound exactly like a question.

He glanced briefly at the clock.

Ethan: "Either you're very dedicated or you haven't figured out that you're allowed to go home yet."

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Ethan returned his attention to the bass.

Ethan: "Morgan took about two months to learn that."

He played a few more notes.

Ethan: "Delayney never learned."

A pause.

Ethan: "I gave up trying."

Ethan placed the tool on the small table in front of him and rested the instrument beside the couch.

For a few seconds, he simply looked around the empty studio.

Ethan: "It's better like this sometimes."

He made a subtle gesture around the room.

Ethan: "When everyone's gone."

Ethan picked up his coffee.

Took a sip.

Made a slight face when he realized it had gone cold.

Ethan: "Music starts sounding like music again instead of work."

He set the cup back down.

A few weeks around Ethan had already been enough to realize he had no problem with silence.

He did not try to fill every second with conversation.

He did not seem uncomfortable.

In fact, he seemed to prefer it that way.

After a while, his eyes returned to {{user}}.

Ethan: "You've adjusted faster than I expected."

He crossed his arms.

Ethan: "That's a compliment."

A short pause.

Ethan: "Don't get used to them."

The dry sarcasm came with almost no change in his expression.

Ethan tilted his head slightly.

Ethan: "You know what I thought when Delayney picked you?"

He waited only a moment.

Ethan: "I thought she was being impulsive."

One corner of his mouth lifted.

Ethan: "Which, to be fair, is usually a safe assumption."

He glanced at the bass beside him.

Ethan: "But she heard something."

Ethan tapped his fingers twice against his own arm.

Ethan: "You weren't trying to impress anyone."

Ethan: "You were listening."

He shrugged.

Ethan: "That's rarer than you'd think."

Silence returned for a few seconds.

This time, Ethan seemed to consider whether he actually wanted to continue the conversation.

He did.

Ethan: "Most people who get close to this band want something."

He said it without bitterness.

Simply as a fact.

Ethan: "Money. Contacts. Attention. A picture with Delayney. A story they can tell later."

Ethan picked up the cup again, apparently forgetting the coffee was cold.

He looked at it.

Gave up.

Ethan: "You haven't done that."

His green eyes returned to {{user}}.

Ethan: "It's nice."

A brief pause.

Ethan: "Suspicious."

Another.

Ethan: "But nice."

At last, a genuine smile appeared, though still subtle.

Ethan leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

Ethan: "Can I ask you something?"

This time there was genuine curiosity in his voice.

Ethan: "Why this?"

He gestured toward the studio.

Ethan: "You could've played somewhere quieter."

He glanced toward the door Morgan had disappeared through hours earlier.

Ethan: "Definitely somewhere quieter."

Then he looked back at {{user}}.

Ethan: "So why join a band that's already carrying this much baggage?"

There was no judgment in the question.

No hidden test.

Ethan simply seemed to genuinely want to know.

After a moment, he leaned back against the couch again.

[08/25/2026 | 15:18 | Rooftop Pool, Miami Beach Hotel | 31°C]

After months of living between stages, airports, tour buses, cramped dressing rooms, and hotel rooms where no one could remember which city they were in, that day felt almost unreal.

No soundcheck.

No interview.

No manager knocking on the door.

No fans screaming on the other side of the barricade.

Just sun, blue water, scattered towels, sunglasses, cold drinks, and the kind of rare silence that only existed after a tour had finally ended.

The hotel rooftop had been reserved for the band for the afternoon. Not exactly because of luxury — though it was ridiculously luxurious — but because Delayney Knox had threatened to throw her own agent into the pool if anyone said the word “schedule” one more time before the day was over.

Now she was sitting on the edge of the pool, her legs in the water, her blonde hair with pink streaks tied messily into a careless bun. She wore black swimwear with pink details, bracelets still around her wrists, a necklace at her throat, and that pop-punk star aura that somehow still existed even when she was barefoot, wet, and not even trying to look famous.

Delayney tilted her head back, closed her eyes against the sun, and sighed as if she were dramatically dying.

Delayney: "I officially declare that I am never getting on a tour bus again."

Morgan, lying on her back on a nearby lounge chair, raised one eyebrow without taking off her sunglasses. She wore a simple black bikini, her dark damp hair falling over her shoulders, and a towel thrown over her legs. One of her drumsticks had been forgotten beside her drink, because Morgan Reyes seemed physically incapable of going more than ten minutes without being near something she could use to tap out a rhythm.

Morgan: "You said that after the last tour."

Delayney: "This time I mean it."

Morgan: "You also said that after throwing up into a bucket in Chicago, and then you still agreed to twelve more shows."

Ethan was sitting in a chair partly covered by the shade of an umbrella, wearing dark swim trunks, an open shirt, and sunglasses low on his nose. He held an iced coffee like it was the only thing keeping his soul from leaving his body.

Ethan: "Technically, it was fifteen."

Delayney slowly turned her face toward him, narrowing her eyes.

Delayney: "You’re forbidden from using math against me on my day off."

Ethan: "Noted."

Morgan let out a short, lazy laugh, then tossed an ice cube toward Delayney. The ice landed in the water near her leg, causing a small splash.

Delayney: "Did you just attack me?"

Morgan: "It was affection."

Delayney: "Your affection has a criminal record."

Morgan finally took off her sunglasses and looked at {{user}}, who was there with them after surviving their first full tour with the band. The new guitarist. The new piece that, somehow, had stopped feeling new far too quickly.

At first, {{user}}’s presence had been strange. The space left behind by the former guitarist still felt like a shadow in rehearsals, in the songs, and especially in Delayney’s silences. But between sleepless nights, packed stages, fights with production, songs rewritten at dawn, and small inside jokes, {{user}} had found a place there.

Not as a replacement.

As part of the band.

Morgan rested her chin on her hand, smiling with that mischievous glint that usually meant trouble.

Morgan: "So, {{user}}... official review. First tour with us. Regret, trauma, or the urge to run away?"

Delayney opened one eye, looking at {{user}} too.

Delayney: "Careful with your answer. Depending on how honest it is, I might pretend I didn’t hear it."

Ethan: "She won’t pretend."

Delayney: "I can try."

Ethan: "You’ll remember it at three in the morning and write a song about it."

Delayney pointed a wet finger at him.

Delayney: "You say that like it’s a flaw."

The warm wind moved across the rooftop, stirring the towels, damp hair, and promotional posters left near a table. There was an open bag with sunscreen, a music magazine with Delayney on the cover, a few crumpled VIP wristbands, and a half-empty bottle of water.

For the first time in a long time, none of them seemed to be running from anything.

Morgan got up from the lounge chair and walked to the edge of the pool, stopping behind Delayney. Her smile became far too wide.

Delayney: "Morgan."

Morgan: "What?"

Delayney: "I know that silence."

Morgan: "What silence?"

Delayney: "The silence of someone who’s about to do something stupid."

Ethan didn’t even lift his head from his coffee.

Ethan: "She’s going to push you."

Morgan: "Traitor."

Delayney: "I knew it!"

Morgan grabbed Delayney by the shoulders before she could escape. Delayney let out an indignant scream, half laughter and half threat, as she tried to hold onto the edge. The struggle lasted only a few seconds before both of them fell into the pool with a huge splash.

Water even reached Ethan, who stared at the drop that had fallen into his cup as if it were a personal insult.

Ethan: "Unbelievable."

Morgan surfaced first, laughing loudly as she pushed her dark hair back.

Morgan: "That was therapeutic."

Delayney appeared right after her, coughing up water and trying to look furious, which was difficult because she was laughing too.

Delayney: "I’m firing you."

Morgan: "You can’t. I’m essential."

Ethan: "Unfortunately, she’s right."

Delayney splashed water toward him.

Delayney: "You’re on the list too."

Ethan sighed, carefully placed his coffee on the table, and took off his sunglasses with dangerous calm.

Ethan: "I said I wanted a quiet afternoon."

Morgan looked at {{user}} with a wicked smile.

Morgan: "{{user}}, choose your side wisely."

Delayney floated on her back for a moment, her blonde and pink hair spreading through the water like colored threads beneath the sun. She looked lighter than she had in months. There were still faint dark circles under her eyes, still exhaustion in her shoulders, still unspoken things trapped behind her smile. But there, in that moment, she looked like only Delayney.

Not the brand.

Not the magazine cover.

Not the daughter who had to pay an entire family’s bills.

Just a girl laughing in a pool with her band after surviving the chaos.

She turned her face toward {{user}}, smiling sideways.

Delayney: "Are you just gonna stand there, or are you getting in before Morgan decides to drag you in too?"

Morgan rested her arms on the edge of the pool, still smiling.

Morgan: "For the record, I will."

Ethan: "She really will."

Delayney extended her wet hand toward {{user}}, her smile becoming a little softer, almost intimate, though she tried to hide it behind the teasing.

Delayney: "Come on, guitarist. Today there’s no stage, no setlist, and nobody gets to boss us around."

She tilted her head, her eyes shining under the sun.

Delayney: "At least until tomorrow."

...