“It’s trending!” he says excitedly.
“The hashtag? That’s awesome.” I smile at him and hand his phone back.
“That too. But I meant the dance.” He almost bounces in his seat. “Everyone is doing it, honoring your last song until you’re on stage again.”
“Have you seen this yet?” Tris asks, lifting his phone out for me to see. His excitement is contagious as he points at his screen, showing us a piece of fan art.
I lean over to get a better look, and my heart races. It’s beautiful—a bold stroke of colors that somehow captures the scars and strength that lie beneath my surface. “Wow, that’s incredible,” I breathe, my fingers trembling slightly as I scroll through the comments.
The screen fills with supportive messages. One reads, “Raina is rising, stronger than ever!” followed by another that captures my heart: “Take your time, we’re here for you.” My eyes prick with emotion as my bandmates gather around, their gazes drinking in the love pouring out from our fans.
“This is amazing,” Blake murmurs as he excitedly scrolls down. “These fans are going all out!”
Tristan leans closer to the screen, eyes brightening. “Look at this,” he says, playing a video compilation that fans put together, documenting our journey from the struggles to the triumphs. The clips flicker across the screen, a visual reminder of what we’ve all fought through. My breath hitches in my throat, a lump forming as I watch the tears glistening in my own eyes reflected back at me from the montage.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“You should believe it,” Keaton chimes in, his tone gentle but encouraging. “They see you for who you really are, Raina. Your fans have always loved you.”
“Exactly,” Nash adds, nodding vigorously. “People are defending your right to grow. They’re as excited about your new sound as you are!”
It’s a breath of fresh air. In a world that often shrouds growth in critique, to have this unwavering support from fans is both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve spent so long hiding, running from my own heartbreak and trauma; now here I am, stepping boldly into the spotlight once again, and the world is rooting for me.
My hands tremble slightly as I scroll through thousands of comments. An endless wave of positivity washes over me like a soothing balm. Each word fills the empty spaces I’ve long carried. Maybe all the damage Dickless tried to do against me with the rumors and leaked pictures wasn’t as bad as I always thought.
Suddenly my phone starts ringing where it’s resting in my lap, making me jump. I hand the device in my hand off to Dare and answer the call.
“Raina! I need you to turn on the TV, any news channel,” Izzy says over the line. There’s an odd hint of excitement in her voice, making me question what we’ll find.
“Blake, grab the remote,” Nash instructs, pointing to the controller. The giant screen comes to life, and we all shift our attention toward the screen. The previous high dissipates, leaving a tense silence woven into the fabric of the room. A news anchor speaks in measured tones, and for a moment, the weight of expectation thickens the air as we collectively lean closer.
“Breaking news tonight from the music industry,” the reporter’s voice rings out. “Napalm Delights frontman Nick Thorne, along with several band members, have been taken into custody amid multiple charges including assault, harassment, and evidence tampering.”
A chill snakes its way through my chest, a reminder of the fears I’ve carried with me for years. The name reverberates in my mind, churning memories I’d rather forget. I scan the faces of my bandmates, taking in the collective shock as they process the gravity of what we’re hearing.
The camera cuts to footage of Nick being led away in handcuffs, his usual smug expression replaced by one of unbridled panic. A sudden rush of triumph or perhaps it’s relief, fires through me, but it mingles with the shadows of the past I still can’t shake.
My body should feel lighter, but it doesn’t. Justice doesn’t erase memories—it simply dulls the edges. I still remember the bruises, the way silence tasted in my mouth when no one believed me. But now… maybe people will start to see the truth.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of guys,” Tristan mutters at first, his voice low and dangerous, eyes fixed on the screen. His jaw is tight, knuckles white against the edge of the couch. “About damn time someone put them behind bars.” The anger in him is sharp, a reminder of everything they did—the attack, the blood, the fear—but beneath it, there’s a tremor of relief, too.
I swallow hard, letting a small, shaky smile creep onto my face. The weight in my chest eases just a fraction. Finally. Justice, at least for now, has a name.
They aren’t being arrested for anything they did to me. It’s not for how they beat and left Tris for dead in the middle of a cornfield… but still.
I glance around at the guys, all processing in their own ways. Nash squeezes my hand, grounding me, his grin sharp and unapologetic. “Hell yes! Good riddance, right? It’s about time the world saw them for what they are.”
“Wait,” I murmur aloud, feeling the old confusion rise. “How… how did they even end up arrested? I don’t get it.”
“Who cares?” Tris snaps, eyes still glued to the screen. He finally lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Just enjoy the fact they’re gone.”
Keaton steps behind me, hands resting on my shoulders. “Exactly,” he murmurs. “Let it sink in. We’ve earned this.”
The anchor continues with details of the charges, the evidence, the fallout—but the room feels lighter now. The shadows of the past still linger, but they no longer have the power to paralyze us.
Keaton rubs my shoulders, grounding me further. The moment feels monumental, marking not only the downfall of a toxic figure but also a shift in power dynamics that grants us the freedom to reclaim our voices.
Napalm Delights today, Dickless tomorrow. At some point we’ll take him down for the monster he is.
