Chapter 1: Ansley Street

Somewhere on Ansley Street

Blood pattered in the puddles like raindrops under his ambling steps, the brick wall cold on his palm that held him steady. He didn't want to go back—he couldn't. He knew what they would say when he returned: What is the point? Why do you keep doing this? What's it going to take, Hollis?

He gritted his teeth, tasting a mixture of salt and blood that had run down his cheek and onto his lips. The truth was—he didn't know. He had no answer for them, and as he clutched his mask—his persona, his safety—in his left hand, the dark alley to his right suddenly seemed like more of a quiet haven than what awaited him back at the venue.

The world spun around him as he stumbled down the dark corridor. At its dead end, he discarded the mask on the soaked ground and plopped down onto a pile of empty pallets. He leaned back on the brick, staring at the cloudy city night.

Then, and only then, did his sobs echo against the silence.

***

Eight Hours Earlier

Rain sliced Lorelei's cheeks, sharp and sudden. Water dripped off the tip of her nose, and she wiped it with a saturated sleeve. Her entire outfit was now a sponge while she stood only half-listening to Lacey, who was bouncing beside her in the fast-pass lane—not that it was actually fast. Even though Lacey had paid extra for them to get into the venue before everyone else, they were just far enough from the entrance for Lacey to turn feral as soon as the doors opened. But for now, the two friends waited impatiently in the rain while the fans around them talked about the anonymous band Willow with a fervor Lorelei just couldn't match. 

"I heard the lead singer is actually that actor who disappeared from Hollywood," one fan whispered, her eyes wide and bright under a black umbrella. Her friend snorted, steam mingling with breath.

"No way," he countered, shaking his head. "They're all classically trained musicians who got blacklisted."

Lorelei listened to the exchange behind her with distant ears, shifting her weight as water squelched from her shoes. Lacey still bounced beside her, a restless metronome keeping time with her eagerness. She mumbled about some rumor she'd heard regarding the band's front man several days ago on social media.

Tonight's concert was the final stop on Willow's tour—Lacey's "day one" band, or so she called them. She was one of those fans who would shout from the rooftops that she'd been a fan since the group's first single had less than twenty thousand streams. Normally, Lorelei couldn't stand those fans. They were the ones who would barrel anyone over to get to the barricade in the pit, and the ones who would stick around outside long afterward to wait for the band to go to their bus. But Lacey was Lorelei's best friend, after all, and Lorelei had been dealing with her shenanigans for so many years that she no longer paid any mind to it.

"We look like drowned rats," Lacey said, finally changing the subject from Willow.

Lorelei let out a low hum, voice flat, eyes somewhere else. Lacey nudged her, a playful elbow to the ribs.

"You don't sound thrilled. I thought you wanted to try and figure out who they are, Miss Filmmaker."

Lorelei frowned. "No. I mean, I just said it's interesting that they are anonymous."

"Well, anyway," Lacey said, squinting at the entrance. "As soon as we're through those doors, we have to sprint. I'll get a spot in front of Echo if it kills me. That man is fine."

Lorelei flinched as a drop of rain hit her in the eye. She wiped it away. "How do you know? You can't see his face."

"It's his body language. He's confident—it's hot," she said, and Lorelei shook her head, watching a photographer exiting the side door of the venue. The girl was loaded down like a mule with her equipment, making herself smaller to keep it covered under her umbrella. For a moment, Lorelei was jealous. "Besides," Lacey continued, holding up her palm, "have you seen his hands when he plays? If a man's got nice hands, I'm done for."

Lorelei snorted, pulling out her phone. "Whatever you say." She fumbled with it for a moment, seeing two missed texts from Lucas. They demanded her attention, each hitting like the cold drops down her collar.

I don't think we have enough in stock for the weekend.

Did you call the sign company this morning?

Lorelei typed a reply quickly before shoving it back in her pocket. The world buzzed around her in damp excitement, but she remained on the edge of it all, thoughts drifting to her responsibilities back at her own venue, Club Seven. The small, former hot spot her parents had started up decades before this venue, Ansley Street, had even been built.

Her parents began their dream of owning a club in the 1970s, and soon plenty of bands and solo artists had come through their doors. They'd all mingled in the back halls and graced the wooden stage with their presence, making a name for Club Seven within the bustling streets of 1980s Atlanta. But her parents weren't here anymore, and Club Seven's most popular times now were nothing more than open mic nights on weekends, where industry hopefuls would receive a scattered round of applause from the few regulars who still hung around after all these years. Even still, Lorelei photographed and recorded the newbies' dingy glory through the lens of her camera, where the sign outside that read Club Seven was missing letters now. Someone had always meant to fix it, but, in truth, it fit the aesthetic of days long passed, just like the battered furniture and dim lighting inside. She'd never seen the place in its heyday. Sometimes she saw it in her dreams, but even then it was still filled with the only things she knew—a shoddy sound system and the smell of cheap beer, nothing like the fancy craft beers she knew were being sold across the bar top of Ansley Street. 

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the now-drizzle. Ansley Street looked more like a spaceship than a concert building—all glass and steel against the wet concrete. There was a blue-tinted sign around the front of the building proclaiming some marketing slogan Lorelei couldn't remember, only that it promised everything Club Seven wasn't. These posters weren't hand-stapled to the walls or sun-bleached in the windows. They had QR codes and gloss coatings. She hated how appealing all of it was, and she hated even more how appealing she found it.

She'd watched the place be built from her apartment window above Club Seven. Months and months had gone by—late mornings after long nights, drinking her coffee and watching the giant crane and slow construction two blocks over, until the shadow of it was too big for Club Seven to shine as it once had.

Though it'd been a long time since then.

She watched the fans around her now, wondering what would happen if bands like Willow would ever play at Club Seven again. The venue in her mind was still alive and vivid, so different from its present reality, something she couldn't even recognize: the crowd packed Club Seven to the rafters, a living, breathing thing, pressed in close and wild with anticipation. She could see the opening sequence of a live music video—a shaky, raw clip that pulled viewers into the chaos, put them at the center of it all. It was an ocean of sound, a tide of bodies, the world she craved as much as dreaded. She knew exactly how she'd catch the sweat on a singer's brow, the glint of guitar strings. She envisioned stage lights flashing, the electricity in the air, the way she'd capture the pounding pulse of a perfect night. It was an idea that sparked both the excitement that comes with daydreams and the dread that lives within reality, each fighting for space in her chest.

Lacey snapped her fingers in front of Lorelei's face, pulling her back to her cold reality of rain and the tinny gossip of the people in line behind them.

"You're zoning out again."

"Sorry, I just—" Lorelei began, trailing off. She could feel Lacey watching her, expression shifting from teasing to something softer, as if she had read Lorelei's mind.

"You worry too much," Lacey said, linking arms with Lorelei. "Lucas can manage one night. Anyway, they say one night can change everything, you know."

Lacey mused about their current evening, though the words were lost on Lorelei. Lorelei's world was stuck in could-have-beens and never-will-be's, wrapping around her like music. A shiver ran down her spine, and she was unsure whether it was from her drenched clothes or her thoughts. Ansley Street was sleek and popular, everything Club Seven used to be but no longer was, and Lorelei couldn't help but feel the sting of guilt for being here instead of helping Lucas, even if she had promised Lacey she would come along. 

"Can we at least pretend you're excited to be here?" Lacey said.

"I am," Lorelei insisted, but the words sounded limp, and even she didn't believe them. "Really."

"You look like you're going to a funeral," Lacey said. "For your social life." 

Lorelei rolled her eyes as her phone vibrated again. She pulled it out, watching the rain splatter on the screen that read:

The doorknob broke again... come in the back when you get home.

She sighed. His texts pinged her conscience with more force than the rain. But before she could type a reply, a cheer erupted from the line ahead of them, and the crowd shifted forward.

The rush happened fast, like a system crashing. The line surged, propelling itself forward, hundreds of hands throwing themselves toward the doors as they flew open. Once they made it inside, Lorelei barely had time to brace herself before Lacey gripped her wrist and hauled her through the flood. 

The world became a blur of movement and noise. Wet jackets and dripping ponchos brushed against Lorelei as she stumbled to keep pace with Lacey's relentless advance, cutting a path with pure, stubborn force. Lacey's grip was a lifeline and a tether, both anchoring Lorelei and dragging her along faster than she could comfortably go, but Lacey didn't falter. She charged through the fray, dragging Lorelei past pockets of arguing fans. The floor was slick, the surroundings a collage of faces, colors, and sounds, and Lorelei's focus narrowed to the immediate need to stay upright, keep moving. 

Ahead of them, a pair of fans spilled into Lorelei's path, locked in a fist fight. Lorelei jerked to a halt, a sharp intake of breath catching in her throat, but Lacey pulled her back into motion with a growl of frustration. 

"Keep going!" Lacey barked as she muscled forward. 

The fight was enveloped by yellow-jacketed staff, the scuffle subsumed by the wider frenzy. Lacey maneuvered them past the altercation with such mechanical efficiency that Lorelei could hardly hear herself think until finally, impossibly, they crashed against the barricade.

Lacey let out a whoop, a sound of triumph that cut cleanly through the chaos. The cold metal pressed against Lorelei's ribs, grounding and surreal. 

"See?" Lacey panted, gesturing to the center of the stage. "Front and center! Totally worth it, right?"

Lorelei wasn't convinced. She exhaled, eyes wide at how something as intangible as music could lead to such chaos. She shook her head. 

"Honestly, no."

Lacey raised an eyebrow, laughing. "At least you're honest about it."

Lorelei observed without speaking as the room filled quickly behind them, fans compressing and pushing and cramming inside. Every sight and sound crashed over Lorelei like a sensory hurricane. She held onto the barricade for dear life, and, for a moment, she'd forgotten about Club Seven, Lucas, and the wet, weighty troubles she'd left behind. Her world shrank to the here and now, where, within the dull murmur of voices that followed the chaos, she reluctantly accepted that she'd become a part of some other world entirely.

Something she couldn't have prepared for even if she'd tried.