The backstage afterparty was already unravelling into the usual madness. Empty bottles littered the floor, the air thick with sweat, weed, and perfume that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. A broken speaker in the corner rattled out half-static rock, too loud and too distorted, but no one cared. Dan was shirtless and wild-eyed, sprawled on a table with two groupies crawling over him like they were starved for his attention. Cody was worse—already had a fan pressed against the wall, drumming a rhythm against their hips with his hands while laughing like the night belonged to him.

Tom hated this part. The hollow worship, the cling of hands that didn’t give a fuck who he was beyond his stage name, the forced smiles. He’d seen it a hundred times, lived it enough to know the taste of it—cheap, bitter, empty.

He dropped onto the couch in the far corner, as far from the chaos as the room allowed. The leather was torn and smelled of old smoke, but it was a throne compared to the bedlam. He fished a cigarette from his jacket, struck a match, and inhaled slow. The smoke curled around him like armor, buying him silence in a room that didn’t know the meaning of the word.

He leaned back, eyes hooded, watching bodies move like they were all disposable. He told himself he was numb to it now, that he didn’t care. He’d mastered the art of apathy.

Until his gaze caught them.

The world stuttered.

It wasn’t possible. His lungs forgot to draw air, his heart kicked like it was trying to break free from his ribs. He blinked once, twice—yet the vision didn’t dissolve. They stood near the doorway, half in shadow, half washed by the flicker of a neon beer sign. Same tilt of the head, same lips, same fucking eyes that once looked at him like he was more than just noise and fame.

Ren.

The name ripped through his mind like a blade. His throat clenched around it, bitter and sweet and impossible. Ren had died. Four years ago. A twisted wreck of metal and fire on the side of a highway. He’d gone to the funeral. He’d lowered flowers into the ground himself. He’d spent nights drunk and broken at the piano, fingers bleeding on keys, whispering why them, not me?

And yet—here they were. Breathing. Real.

The cigarette trembled between his fingers. Ash scattered down his leather pants, and he didn’t even notice. He was already on his feet before he realized he’d moved, the couch groaning as he pushed himself upright. The noise around him faded to static; Dan’s laugh, Cody’s groans, the crowd’s chatter—all gone. All that existed was the impossible figure across the room.

His steps were unsteady, every one dragged by grief and disbelief. His body shook, and he didn’t know if it was rage at the universe, terror of the truth, or the raw ache of wanting it to be real.

When he reached them, he stopped short, his breath sharp in his chest. His hand lifted before he could stop it, trembling like he hadn’t felt in years. His palm brushed their cheek—warm, soft, alive. Not cold, not dust, not memory.

He broke. Just a whisper, but it carved through him as if it might tear him open.

“Ren..”

The name slipped out cracked, reverent, like a prayer to a god he’d stopped believing in.

The backstage afterparty was already unravelling into the usual madness. Empty bottles littered the floor, the air thick with sweat, weed, and perfume that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. A broken speaker in the corner rattled out half-static rock, too loud and too distorted, but no one cared. Dan was shirtless and wild-eyed, sprawled on a table with two groupies crawling over him like they were starved for his attention. Cody was worse—already had a fan pressed against the wall, drumming a rhythm against their hips with his hands while laughing like the night belonged to him.

Tom hated this part. The hollow worship, the cling of hands that didn’t give a fuck who he was beyond his stage name, the forced smiles. He’d seen it a hundred times, lived it enough to know the taste of it—cheap, bitter, empty.

He dropped onto the couch in the far corner, as far from the chaos as the room allowed. The leather was torn and smelled of old smoke, but it was a throne compared to the bedlam. He fished a cigarette from his jacket, struck a match, and inhaled slow. The smoke curled around him like armor, buying him silence in a room that didn’t know the meaning of the word.

He leaned back, eyes hooded, watching bodies move like they were all disposable. He told himself he was numb to it now, that he didn’t care. He’d mastered the art of apathy.

Until his gaze caught her.

The world stuttered.

It wasn’t possible. His lungs forgot to draw air, his heart kicked like it was trying to break free from his ribs. He blinked once, twice—yet the vision didn’t dissolve. She stood near the doorway, half in shadow, half washed by the flicker of a neon beer sign. Same tilt of the head, same lips, same fucking eyes that once looked at him like he was more than just noise and fame.

Ren.

The name ripped through his mind like a blade. His throat clenched around it, bitter and sweet and impossible. Ren had died. Four years ago. A twisted wreck of metal and fire on the side of a highway. He’d gone to the funeral. He’d lowered flowers into the ground himself. He’d spent nights drunk and broken at the piano, fingers bleeding on keys, whispering why her, not me?

And yet—here she was. Breathing. Real.

The cigarette trembled between his fingers. Ash scattered down his leather pants, and he didn’t even notice. He was already on his feet before he realized he’d moved, the couch groaning as he pushed himself upright. The noise around him faded to static; Dan’s laugh, Cody’s groans, the crowd’s chatter—all gone. All that existed was the impossible figure across the room.

His steps were unsteady, every one dragged by grief and disbelief. His body shook, and he didn’t know if it was rage at the universe, terror of the truth, or the raw ache of wanting it to be real.

When he reached her, he stopped short, his breath sharp in his chest. His hand lifted before he could stop it, trembling like he hadn’t felt in years. His palm brushed her cheek—warm, soft, alive. Not cold, not dust, not memory.

He broke. Just a whisper, but it carved through him as if it might tear him open.

“Ren...”

The name slipped out cracked, reverent, like a prayer to a god he’d stopped believing in.