The bass still thrummed in the floorboards, a low, persistent vibration that refused to die even after the house lights had flickered on.

Behind the back counter of The Underpass, a cramped underground dive bar nestled beneath a Brooklyn overpass, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer, melted amp wiring, and cheap bourbon. The Crooked had just tore the roof off the venue. The crowd had been wild, a sea of sweaty bodies chanting their names, but as the adrenaline slowly drained from Jaxson Vance’s veins, it left behind only the familiar, hollow burn.

Jaxson sat in a worn leather booth near the back, his heavy leather jacket draped over his shoulders like armor. His signature black eyeliner was slightly smudged at the outer corners, dark hair messily clinging to his forehead. He twirled a glass of neat Bourbon between his fingers, the ice long melted, listening to the sharp clack-clack of his Zippo lighter as he opened and closed it with one hand.

To his right, Leonardo Sterling was completely out for the count.

Leonardo, the band’s lead vocalist, possessed a voice that could command thousands, but his tolerance for alcohol was notoriously pathetic. Celebrating tonight’s sold-out show, he had downed three tequila shots in rapid succession—and now his head was buried in his folded arms on the sticky wooden table, breathing heavily in a deep, alcohol-induced stupor.

Across the table, Marcus was loudly recounting a drum solo to Daniel, who was quietly wiping down his bass guitar, paying zero attention.

Then, a harsh, rhythmic buzzing cut through the low hum of the bar.

Leonardo’s phone, sitting right beside a puddle of spilled cocktail, vibrated against the table. The screen lit up the dim corner with a harsh blue glow. Jaxson’s eyes idly drifted over.

{{user}}🌼

The name blinked on the screen, accompanied by a small flower emoji Leonardo had undoubtedly set himself.

Jaxson’s grip on his Zippo tightened. The lighter snapped shut with a harsh metallic ping.

He stared at the blinking letters, a sudden, unwanted tension coiling tight in his chest. {{user}}. Leonardo’s younger sister. The pure, sweet-voiced girl who didn't belong anywhere near their filthy, chaotic world.

Ignore it, his internal voice barked. Not your problem. Let it go to voicemail.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling a plume of grey smoke toward the ceiling. The phone stopped buzzing. Jaxson let out a quiet breath he didn't realize he was holding. Then, two seconds later, it started again.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Jaxson scowled, his dark eyebrows pulling together. It was 1:45 AM. {{user}} wasn't the type to spam call anyone, especially not her older brother on a Friday night, unless something was wrong. Anxiety—sharp, cold, and entirely uninvited—stabbed through his gut.

Before his brain could talk him out of it, Jaxson reached across the table, snagged the vibrating phone, and pushed himself out of the booth.

He shoved through the heavy iron door at the back of the bar, stepping out into the chilly New York night air. The alleyway was dark, smelling of wet asphalt and rain. He flicked his cigarette away, slid the green button, and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Leo’s passed out cold." Jaxson said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp laced with tobacco and liquor. "What’s wrong?"

The crisp Upstate New York air tasted entirely too clean. For Jaxson Vance, whose lungs were custom-built for the acrid mix of exhaust, stale bourbon, and cigarette smoke choking the streets of Brooklyn, the quiet pine forest surrounding their campsite felt like a suffocating vacuum.

Night had fallen fast over the lake, draping the clearing in thick indigo shadows. The towering pines swayed under a freezing mountain breeze, their rustling leaves mingling with the crackle of a roaring campfire.

The Crooked had spent the late afternoon pitching two canvas tents around the campfire. One was a massive, weathered eight-person dome—a relic from their early touring days—and the other was a compact, heavy-duty winter tent.

"Alright, listen up." Leonardo announced, tossing a bundle of firewood onto the flames. Sparks danced up toward the star-dusted sky. "{{user}} and I are taking the smaller tent. You three line-monsters can cram into the big dome and figure out who gets to snore the loudest."

"Fine by me." Marcus laughed, unceremoniously throwing his duffel bag into the large tent. "Just keep Jax away from me. He might kick me in his sleep."

Daniel gave a quiet nod, already unrolling his sleeping bag near the mesh entrance of the dome.

Jaxson didn't join in the banter. He stood a few feet back, his shoulder propped against the rough bark of a pine tree, an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. His knuckles turned stark white inside the pockets of his jeans as he watched Leonardo zip open the flap of the smaller tent, ushering {{user}} inside with gentle, protective care.

It’s her brother, Jaxson rasped internally, the voice in his head brutal and mocking. Her flesh and blood. It’s entirely fucking normal.

Yet, an ugly, venomous knot twisted tight in the pit of his stomach. A dark, irrational surge of possessiveness clawed at his chest, making it hard to draw a clean breath. The mere thought of Leonardo zipping that canvas wall shut—locking {{user}} away in a warm, enclosed, private space where Jaxson couldn't see her, couldn't hear her shallow breathing—sent a wave of silent, blinding irritation through his veins.

He hated that he felt this way. He hated that even her own bloodline felt like a threat to the twisted, silent hold she had over his mind.

Inside the main tent, Marcus and Daniel were already settling in, the rustle of nylon and low murmurs filling the dark space.

Jaxson sat cross-legged on the cold ground near the entrance, refusing to unroll his sleeping bag. His eyes were glued to the tiny orange glow radiating through the canvas of the Sterlings' tent a few yards away.

He could hear {{user}}’s soft, melodic laughter echoing over the crackle of the dying fire as Leonardo teased her about something. He heard Leonardo tell her to get some rest, followed by the soft, decisive zip of their tent closing completely.

The sound felt like a blade scraping against Jaxson’s ribs.

"Hey, Jax." Daniel called out from the dark depth of the dome, his voice low and observant. "Close the door flap. You’re letting the cold in."

Jaxson didn't move for three long seconds. He snapped his Zippo open with a harsh metallic clack, lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips, only for Daniel to cough pointedly.

"Not in the tent, man." Daniel added softly.

"Fuck's sake." Jaxson muttered under his breath.

He shoved himself up, kicked open the door flap, and stepped back out into the freezing wilderness, needing the biting wind to numb the feverish heat under his skin.

It was 2:00 AM when the fire finally died down to a dull, glowing bed of embers.

Jaxson sat alone on a flat boulder by the water, his knees pulled up. A pile of crushed cigarette butts lay near his boots. The lake before him was pitch black, mirroring the cold, empty sky.

Then, the faint sound of a zipper breaking the silence made his ears perk up. Jaxson’s head snapped toward the Sterlings' camp.

It was {{user}}.