#1445 – Moth to Fire

The muffled sound beneath his skin grew louder as the bandage slowly darkened with blood. The stinging pain tore through the wound, surging up his chest like an overwhelming tide, until it exploded with sharp intensity.

But Andrew did not give up.

Gritting his teeth, every muscle in his body locked in place, as if stretched to their breaking point, a bow pulled too tightly. His body trembled under the strain, but his eyes were fixed in a determined, fierce gaze—his resolve as unyielding as the storm within him.

Yet, despite the intensity, his movements were chaotic. There was no rhythm, no technique—just wild, erratic beats that betrayed the very control he had fought so hard to master. He had lost himself in the noise.

Still, Andrew did not relent.

His entire being burned with a stubborn refusal to back down. Bloodshot eyes gleamed with a raw, untamed energy, a primal fire that surged from deep within. He struck the drums, pounding relentlessly, until his right hand became completely stiff. The pain shot through his body, each strike more excruciating than the last.

His jaw clenched, a slight tremor running through his face as he briefly closed his eyes, withdrawing his hand, unable to bear the agony any longer.

The room fell into complete silence. No one dared to move. The stillness was suffocating, as if a wrong movement might disrupt the fragile equilibrium—and make Andrew's madness worse.

Damien, watching intently, couldn't help but notice the strain in Andrew's right hand. It was controlled yet desperate, the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders tensed to their limits. The veins bulged visibly, threatening to burst at any moment, but Andrew's fingers trembled. He was fighting, but the pain was slowly eroding his will.

The blood remained hidden beneath the bandage, but the sharp agony was written all over his face. Even the onlookers could feel the discomfort, grimacing in sympathy as Andrew continued to battle his own body.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Andrew tore off the bandage. The action was subtle but painful, and the rush of pain hit him with full force. His pupils dilated as the agony surged, and the room was filled with a collective wince as his struggle intensified.

Damien's fingers itched, the urge to capture this raw moment overwhelming. He envisioned the scene as though it were already framed and projected onto a movie screen. The shot was perfect—the intensity, the agony, all of it—but he knew better than to act on impulse.

He needed to remain calm.

Andrew tore the bandage off, his teeth clenched so tightly that the sound echoed in the room. His body trembled with pain, but his eyes revealed something darker—something primal. In that instant, the ferocity in his gaze was chilling, a look reminiscent of something far more terrifying than any physical injury.

With a simple motion, he applied a new bandage, layering it over the wound, the blood already seeping through, turning the fabric a deep crimson.

He straightened, determined, and grabbed the drumstick once more.

He needed control. He needed to break through the pain.

The rhythm of his mind shifted as he replayed Buddy Rich's performance in his mind, focusing on the precision of each note, the fluidity of the movement. He tried to relax, his body tense with anticipation. His wrist began to flick at a rapid pace, a steady stream of beats emerging from the drumsticks.

The pain was still there, but Andrew refused to acknowledge it. His wrist flicked faster, the beats growing in frequency, until his muscles began to fight against him once again. Just a little longer. But soon, the stiffness returned.

It was as if his body was trapped in an endless struggle. His limbs were confined, unable to move freely, each beat a rebellion against the rigidity. The anger and frustration built up inside him, a burning desire to break free from this confinement, to exert control over his own body.

He pushed on, defying his limits. Every muscle screamed in protest, but still, he pounded on, the rhythm growing more frantic, more desperate. His movements became more wild, less precise. It was no longer a performance—it was a battle between him and the drums.

The sound became a blur of chaos. If jazz was once an elegant waltz, now it was a savage fight. The wild clattering of sticks against drums resonated through the room, no longer a dance, but a violent struggle for dominance.

The tension was palpable. Andrew's eyes widened, his gaze now wild, ferocious. It was as though he had become something else entirely—something monstrous, something unrestrained.

"Bang. Bang. Bang." The rhythm was entirely lost. There was no longer a pattern, no structure, just relentless, unyielding chaos. The madness that had taken over him flooded the room.

Damien called out, his voice cracking, but the words seemed to vanish in the chaos. The scene was too intense, too primal, and even his voice couldn't break through the noise.

Andrew didn't stop. He kept playing, his mind consumed by the need to keep going, to not surrender.

The room was suffocating, caught between Andrew's ferocity and the silence that surrounded it. It was as if time had stopped. The only thing that existed in that moment was Andrew and his drums.

The madness of a moth drawn to the fire.