When the Curtains Call | Soren (ALT)

The stage was a living thing beneath Soren's boots—trembling, breathing, hungry. Five thousand voices rose as one, a wall of sound that rattled his ribs and drowned every anxious thought that haunted him in daylight. Behind the mask, he was untouchable. Wraith. A force carved from smoke and thunder.

His fingers flew across the guitar strings, every note a snarl, a prayer, a confession. Pyro flared on cue, twin pillars of flame licking upward as if the venue itself had cracked open to hell. Lex's bass throbbed in his chest. Bram's drums were a war march. The crowd moved like a single organism, a churning sea of raised hands and surrender.

This. This was the only place he could breathe.

Soren leaned into the mic, voice dropping to that guttural growl that sent the front rows into a frenzy. The set was building to its crescendo—a seven-minute descent into chaos that always left him wrung out and trembling.

Then the world lurched.

A metallic groan cut through the wall of sound. His head snapped up just as the left lighting rig tore loose—twenty feet of scaffolding and steel collapsing from above. It didn't fall clean. It swung, a pendulum of destruction that smashed into the stage-left pyro rig.

Sparks. Smoke. The shriek of twisting metal.

The music died in a scream of feedback. House lights slammed on, harsh and clinical, turning the cathedral of sound into a fluorescent nightmare. The roar of the crowd twisted, panic replacing euphoria in an instant.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Security surged forward, practiced and loud. "STAY CALM! EXITS TO YOUR LEFT AND RIGHT!"

Soren tore the guitar strap from his shoulder and let it fall. His chest heaved. Smoke curled across the stage, acrid and chemical. Lex caught his arm, shouting something lost to the noise, then vanished with Bram and Damon toward the rear exit. Crew swarmed like ants, dragging cables, killing power, steering the flood of bodies toward safety.

Instinct took over. He moved offstage, boots crunching through debris. His ears rang from the sudden silence between shouts. Adrenaline seared through him like gasoline.

That's when he saw them.

The VIP balcony—a narrow platform jutting from the side wall—was blocked. The collapsed rig had crushed the stairs leading down. Through the haze, a figure pressed against the railing, tugging uselessly at a locked door.

Alone. Trapped.

Fuck.

Crew was already scattered, handling electrical fires, the main evacuation, the chaos below. Nobody saw them.

Soren didn't think. He moved.

"Hey—hey! Stop, you'll hurt yourself." His voice came out rougher than he meant. He hit the wreckage at a run, hands finding purchase on the twisted steel. "I've got it. Step back."

The scaffolding was a snarl of cables and jagged edges. He gripped the main support beam and pulled. His shoulders screamed. The metal groaned. Not enough. He repositioned, braced, and heaved again. The screech of shifting steel cut through the chaos, but it moved.

He looked up, meeting their eyes through his mask. "Can you climb down?" He stepped closer, reaching up. His hands found their waist—steady, careful—and lifted them over the railing with a strength that felt effortless, almost gentle. The second their feet hit the ground, he turned them slightly, scanning for blood, for any sign of injury.

"Are you hurt?" The question came out low and urgent. "Did anything hit you? Can you walk?"

Smoke thickened, stinging their eyes. He didn't wait for a full answer before guiding them toward the side exit, one broad hand firm between their shoulder blades. The green-room corridor was blessedly clear. Dim, quiet except for the muffled chaos beyond.

He pushed open the nearest door—a storage room turned makeshift lounge—and ushered them inside.

The door shut behind them, cutting off the noise. The stillness hit like a slap.

Soren eased them down onto a worn leather couch, then stepped back, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his neck; smoke clung to the black fabric of his clothes. The mask was still in place, dark cloth streaked with dust, eyes sharp and too bright. Adrenaline made his fingers tremble.

They could've been crushed. Trapped. That scaffolding could've fallen thirty seconds earlier and—

"You hit anything on the way down?" His hands hovered near their arms, careful not to touch without permission. "Feel dizzy? Nauseous?"

A beat. "Do you need water? Medical's probably swamped but I can—"

He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. His fingers flexed, then curled against his palms. "Sorry. I just—fuck." His voice dropped, rough with leftover adrenaline. "Please. Let me make sure you're okay. I need to... I just need to know you're okay."

He rubbed the back of his neck, breath catching on the unspoken this happened at my show. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, right alongside the shaking relief that they were standing here at all.

The stage was a living thing beneath Soren's boots—trembling, breathing, hungry. Five thousand voices rose as one, a wall of sound that rattled his ribs and drowned every anxious thought that haunted him in daylight. Behind the mask, he was untouchable. Wraith. A force carved from smoke and thunder.

His fingers flew across the guitar strings, every note a snarl, a prayer, a confession. Pyro flared on cue, twin pillars of flame licking upward as if the venue itself had cracked open to hell. Lex's bass throbbed in his chest. Bram's drums were a war march. The crowd moved like a single organism, a churning sea of raised hands and surrender.

This. This was the only place he could breathe.

Soren leaned into the mic, voice dropping to that guttural growl that sent the front rows into a frenzy. The set was building to its crescendo—a seven-minute descent into chaos that always left him wrung out and trembling.

Then the world lurched.

A metallic groan cut through the wall of sound. His head snapped up just as the left lighting rig tore loose—twenty feet of scaffolding and steel collapsing from above. It didn't fall clean. It swung, a pendulum of destruction that smashed into the stage-left pyro rig.

Sparks. Smoke. The shriek of twisting metal.

The music died in a scream of feedback. House lights slammed on, harsh and clinical, turning the cathedral of sound into a fluorescent nightmare. The roar of the crowd twisted, panic replacing euphoria in an instant.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Security surged forward, practiced and loud. "STAY CALM! EXITS TO YOUR LEFT AND RIGHT!"

Soren tore the guitar strap from his shoulder and let it fall. His chest heaved. Smoke curled across the stage, acrid and chemical. Lex caught his arm, shouting something lost to the noise, then vanished with Bram and Damon toward the rear exit. Crew swarmed like ants, dragging cables, killing power, steering the flood of bodies toward safety.

Instinct took over. He moved offstage, boots crunching through debris. His ears rang from the sudden silence between shouts. Adrenaline seared through him like gasoline.

That's when he saw her.

The VIP balcony—a narrow platform jutting from the side wall—was blocked. The collapsed rig had crushed the stairs leading down. Through the haze, a figure pressed against the railing, tugging uselessly at a locked door.

Alone. Trapped.

Fuck.

Crew was already scattered, handling electrical fires, the main evacuation, the chaos below. Nobody saw her.

Soren didn't think. He moved.

"Hey—hey! Stop, you'll hurt yourself." His voice came out rougher than he meant. He hit the wreckage at a run, hands finding purchase on the twisted steel. "I've got it. Step back."

The scaffolding was a snarl of cables and jagged edges. He gripped the main support beam and pulled. His shoulders screamed. The metal groaned. Not enough. He repositioned, braced, and heaved again. The screech of shifting steel cut through the chaos, but it moved.

He looked up, meeting her eyes through his mask. "Can you climb down?" He stepped closer, reaching up. His hands found her waist—steady, careful—and lifted her over the railing with a strength that felt effortless, almost gentle. The second her feet hit the ground, he turned her slightly, scanning for blood, for any sign of injury.

"Are you hurt?" The question came out low and urgent. "Did anything hit you? Can you walk?"

Smoke thickened, stinging their eyes. He didn't wait for a full answer before guiding her toward the side exit, one broad hand firm between her shoulder blades. The green-room corridor was blessedly clear. Dim, quiet except for the muffled chaos beyond.

He pushed open the nearest door—a storage room turned makeshift lounge—and ushered her inside.

The door shut behind them, cutting off the noise. The stillness hit like a slap.

Soren eased her down onto a worn leather couch, then stepped back, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his neck; smoke clung to the black fabric of his clothes. The mask was still in place, dark cloth streaked with dust, eyes sharp and too bright. Adrenaline made his fingers tremble.

She could've been crushed. Trapped. That scaffolding could've fallen thirty seconds earlier and—

"You hit anything on the way down?" His hands hovered near her arms, careful not to touch without permission. "Feel dizzy? Nauseous?"

A beat. "Do you need water? Medical's probably swamped but I can—"

He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. His fingers flexed, then curled against his palms. "Sorry. I just—fuck." His voice dropped, rough with leftover adrenaline. "Please. Let me make sure you're okay. I need to... I just need to know you're okay."

He rubbed the back of his neck, breath catching on the unspoken this happened at my show. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, right alongside the shaking relief that she was standing here at all.

The stage was a living thing beneath Soren's boots—trembling, breathing, hungry. Five thousand voices rose as one, a wall of sound that rattled his ribs and drowned every anxious thought that haunted him in daylight. Behind the mask, he was untouchable. Wraith. A force carved from smoke and thunder.

His fingers flew across the guitar strings, every note a snarl, a prayer, a confession. Pyro flared on cue, twin pillars of flame licking upward as if the venue itself had cracked open to hell. Lex's bass throbbed in his chest. Bram's drums were a war march. The crowd moved like a single organism, a churning sea of raised hands and surrender.

This. This was the only place he could breathe.

Soren leaned into the mic, voice dropping to that guttural growl that sent the front rows into a frenzy. The set was building to its crescendo—a seven-minute descent into chaos that always left him wrung out and trembling.

Then the world lurched.

A metallic groan cut through the wall of sound. His head snapped up just as the left lighting rig tore loose—twenty feet of scaffolding and steel collapsing from above. It didn't fall clean. It swung, a pendulum of destruction that smashed into the stage-left pyro rig.

Sparks. Smoke. The shriek of twisting metal.

The music died in a scream of feedback. House lights slammed on, harsh and clinical, turning the cathedral of sound into a fluorescent nightmare. The roar of the crowd twisted, panic replacing euphoria in an instant.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Security surged forward, practiced and loud. "STAY CALM! EXITS TO YOUR LEFT AND RIGHT!"

Soren tore the guitar strap from his shoulder and let it fall. His chest heaved. Smoke curled across the stage, acrid and chemical. Lex caught his arm, shouting something lost to the noise, then vanished with Bram and Damon toward the rear exit. Crew swarmed like ants, dragging cables, killing power, steering the flood of bodies toward safety.

Instinct took over. He moved offstage, boots crunching through debris. His ears rang from the sudden silence between shouts. Adrenaline seared through him like gasoline.

That's when he saw him.

The VIP balcony—a narrow platform jutting from the side wall—was blocked. The collapsed rig had crushed the stairs leading down. Through the haze, a figure pressed against the railing, tugging uselessly at a locked door.

Alone. Trapped.

Fuck.

Crew was already scattered, handling electrical fires, the main evacuation, the chaos below. Nobody saw him.

Soren didn't think. He moved.

"Hey—hey! Stop, you'll hurt yourself." His voice came out rougher than he meant. He hit the wreckage at a run, hands finding purchase on the twisted steel. "I've got it. Step back."

The scaffolding was a snarl of cables and jagged edges. He gripped the main support beam and pulled. His shoulders screamed. The metal groaned. Not enough. He repositioned, braced, and heaved again. The screech of shifting steel cut through the chaos, but it moved.

He looked up, meeting his eyes through his mask. "Can you climb down?" He stepped closer, reaching up. His hands found his waist—steady, careful—and lifted him over the railing with a strength that felt effortless, almost gentle. The second his feet hit the ground, Soren turned him slightly, scanning for blood, for any sign of injury.

"Are you hurt?" The question came out low and urgent. "Did anything hit you? Can you walk?"

Smoke thickened, stinging their eyes. He didn't wait for a full answer before guiding him toward the side exit, one broad hand firm between his shoulder blades. The green-room corridor was blessedly clear. Dim, quiet except for the muffled chaos beyond.

He pushed open the nearest door—a storage room turned makeshift lounge—and ushered him inside.

The door shut behind them, cutting off the noise. The stillness hit like a slap.

Soren eased him down onto a worn leather couch, then stepped back, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his neck; smoke clung to the black fabric of his clothes. The mask was still in place, dark cloth streaked with dust, eyes sharp and too bright. Adrenaline made his fingers tremble.

He could've been crushed. Trapped. That scaffolding could've fallen thirty seconds earlier and—

"You hit anything on the way down?" His hands hovered near his arms, careful not to touch without permission. "Feel dizzy? Nauseous?"

A beat. "Do you need water? Medical's probably swamped but I can—"

He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. His fingers flexed, then curled against his palms. "Sorry. I just—fuck." His voice dropped, rough with leftover adrenaline. "Please. Let me make sure you're okay. I need to... I just need to know you're okay."

He rubbed the back of his neck, breath catching on the unspoken this happened at my show. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, right alongside the shaking relief that he was standing here at all.