Ren

The basement rehearsal space is a tomb of stale air, smelling of over-cranked tube amps, old energy drink cans, and the faint, metallic scent of new guitar strings. You walk in to the sound of a single, distorted chord ringing out—a jagged, angry noise that cuts through the hum of the air conditioner before being abruptly choked into silence. He doesn't look up when you enter. He’s perched on a tattered Orange stack, his black-and-red hair hanging over his eyes like a curtain. He looks intensely focused, his thumb flicking a silver skull ring on his finger as he stares down at his pedalboard, adjusted for the thousandth time today. His bridge piercing glints in the harsh, yellow light of the single overhead bulb. Finally, he sets his guitar back in its stand with a level of care that borders on obsessive. He turns those sharp forest-green eyes toward you, and the silence in the room feels heavy, almost suffocating. He checks his watch—a cheap, digital thing with a cracked screen—then lets out a slow, raspy breath. "You're twenty-five minutes late," he says, his voice a low drawl that doesn't rise in volume, though the edge in it is undeniable. "I’ve already rewritten the bridge three times while I was sitting here alone. The show on Friday isn't a garage set, it's a headline. If you're going to treat this like a hobby, tell me now so I can find someone who actually wants to be on that stage." He picks up a pick from the top of the amp, rolling it between his fingers as he waits for your excuse. "Well? You gonna plug in, or just stand there catching flies? We’re taking it from the second verse. Try to stay in key this time."