EZRA | Lucid Veins Band

Location: Balado Airfield Region: Perth and Kinross, Scotland Time: 3:24 p.m. “T in the Park” — the legendary music festival that stopped running back in 2016. And today is special. After all these years, it’s making a massive comeback. New artists, fresh faces, new sounds. A sleek black Mercedes-Benz V-Class rolls up to the site. Still five and a half hours till showtime of Lucid Veins. First out is Liam. As always, first to step out, first to scope the scene for the rest — like a mother duck. His chunky leather boots land in a puddle of mud. The chilly Scottish wind tousles his fiery red hair. He cracks a grin. “Perfect. Just as we expected.” Next, Rory lands. Well, not steps — he jumps out. His bright green eyes are already scanning the surroundings as he stretches lazily, cracking his neck joints. “Dude, I swear, no more long-haul flights for at least a month. I can’t even feel my ass anymore.” Jasper touches down silently beside him. Tall and quiet, his looming figure instantly overshadows Rory. “Touring is literally our job.” Rory frowns, looking up at him. He has to tilt his head back to meet Jasper’s gaze. “Listen, Gulliver, you’re already on my nerves with your smart-ass comments.” He rolls his eyes. “And stop looming over me like that. It’s annoying!” Liam bursts out laughing, stepping between them and clapping them on the backs. “You two argued on the way to the airport, then spent 16 hours on a plane, caught some nap on the way here, and now look — back at it again…” Rory dramatically rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they didn’t fall out. Probably sounded like a shout from Mars — chill, boy. “Cut the preachin’, Mom.” He points his thumb toward their ride with a smirk. “Better wake up our Sleeping Beauty.” Before anyone can say another word, Ezra’s already out of the car. Slow, effortless swagger, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Watch your mouth, asswipe.” Rory grins. “Thought you were asleep.” Ezra strides past them, taking a deep drag. His rugged boots leave muddy prints in the puddles. “I was asleep. But your idiotic chatter woke me up.” The crew is buzzing already — stage prep, fan zones setting up. Spotting the group of guys stepping out, the staff exchange quick glances — awe and respect in their eyes. The grand return of the legendary festival, headlined by the new rock royalty — Lucid Veins. And their frontman — Ezra Blackthorne. The rising star, musical genius, crowd favorite. Last out of the car is the producer. Jimmy. Checking his Patek Philippe watch like clockwork, he sighs. “They were supposed to meet us. No one’s here.” A disgusted swipe across his face. “Europeans. Same old story.” Finished with his complaints, his eyes snap back to the band. “Twenty minutes. Rest up. I’ll handle the festival organizers.” Jimmy strides toward the main tents, phone glued to his ear, already deep in a heated discussion about Lucid Veins’ set. Ezra finishes his cigarette, flicks the butt, crushing it under his boot. Adjusting his leather jacket, he runs a hand through his hair, eyes lifting to the gray Scottish sky. “This ain’t LA…” he drawls lazily.

The crowd of fans spotted Ezra’s band, and the guys scattered in all directions like clockwork. Ezra slipped away with practiced ease, like a shadow weaving through the shouts and flashing cameras. But suddenly—collision. He bumped into a girl just stepping out of the music tent. They almost fell, but Ezra caught her just in time, steadying them both. Irritation flickered across his face. “Look, maybe you didn’t know, but you can use your eyes. Try looking where you’re going!” he snapped, expecting at least some sign of embarrassment, nervousness, fear, anything. Instead, he met a steely gaze, furrowed brows, and pure judgment. She wasn’t scared. No screams. No attempts to kiss him. No begging for an autograph. No desperate scribbles on her boobs. On one hand, it was a relief. On the other, a question burned in his mind: why? It annoyed him, made him doubt. And Ezra hated doubting. Blood started to boil. “What’s your problem? Not only can’t you see, but you swallowed your tongue too?” he growled. She still showed no fear. Audacity. He was about to unleash his trademark sharp wit when the unmistakable hum of a golf cart approached. Out stepped a middle-aged man, a mess of organizer lanyards dangling from his neck. Flailing his hands, he hurried over: “No, no, no! If musicians can’t live in harmony, then humanity’s doomed!” He planted himself between them, grabbed Ezra’s hand and the girl’s. A smile spread across his face: “Music must heal. It’s the unspoken rule!” Ezra snorted, rolling his eyes: “Sure thing, man.” Trying to pull his hand away, the man only tightened his grip: “We shall pray!” Ezra let out a soft, skeptical chuckle, smooth as velvet: “What?! Pray?” The man nodded and began a low, monotone prayer—to gods unheard of. Then, with a sharp click— Ezra barely noticed the sound, but now their wrists—his and hers—were locked together in handcuffs. He glanced from the cuffs back to the man: “What the hell, dude?” The man raised his hands in mock surrender: “Music binds souls.” Smiling, he turned to the golf cart. The driver started it up, and the cart rolled away. Still dazed, Ezra grabbed the girl’s hand and called after him: “This is seriously not funny! Come back! And get these fucking cuffs off! Where’s the key?” The man just shook his head: “Oh, no, no, no... This is musical magic. Now you’re together.” Everything spun in Ezra’s head. The golf cart disappeared into the crowd and haze. In the distance, screams echoed from the Ferris wheel, people danced with beer cups in hand, and bass beats pulsed from every stage. Ezra’s eyes locked back on the handcuffs. Then he looked up at the girl. Long silence. Then in a velvet-soft voice: “Congratulations, kitten—you’re stuck with Ezra Blackthorne. And he damn well needs those keys. Right now.”