“It’s all good, no worries.”
She straightens, cheeks flushed. “Hi, I’m Mara.”
Now I catch it, the faint Danish roll to her r’s. “Denmark?” I ask, and when she nods, I smile. “Hi, I’m Rafe.”
She laughs, tugging her cap lower. “Yeah, I know.”
It stalls there for too long. I pluck a few notes from the guitar slung over my shoulder, filling the air between us. “You working the piano setup tonight?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’m new to the team. Olivier had a family thing come up. Just making sure your monitor feed’s clean. You’re good. If something feels off, let me know.”
We exchange quick professional smiles and step back into the rhythm of the room. Still, something about her feels bright and a little volatile, the kind of person who could become trouble without meaning to. I file the name away and decide distance will be safest.
Rithy staggers in halfway through soundcheck, sunglasses dangling from the end of his nose, hood up, looking like a ghost with a hangover. Kiri’s beside him, hand on his shoulder, steering him like a handler guiding a racehorse. For a second, Rithy’s eyes catch mine, and everything from last night flickers there, the words, the tension, the bruise of it but we both look away almost in the same breath. He slides the glasses up.
The exchange hangs in the air just long enough for Kiri to clock it. Ronan glances up too, reading the silence the way only bandmates can. They both dismiss it with the practiced ease of people used to walking around old landmines.
“Well, look who decided to join us,” I call, the grin colder than it should be.
Rithy raises two fingers in mock salute. “Wouldn’t miss it,boss.”
Soundcheck rolls smooth after that. The acoustics in this hall are perfect, the kind that make even mistakes sound intentional. When we finish, the crew wheels out the new veils, our stage masks for this part of the tour. Each continent gets its own, a tradition,one fans cross borders just to see what new design will appear first.
Rithy touches his with almost a reverent glide, outlining the design. “You’ve outdone yourselves. Europe looks magnificent.”
He holds his up, painted with a blood-red grin so realistic I double-take. “Christ, that’s nightmare fuel.”
He grins beneath it. “Perfect, then.”
My veil is rich, almost decadent, velvet baroque etched in blood red, dense enough to feel like armour. Ronan’s is patterned with Gaelic knots in blue and white, fierce and proud. Kiri’s is plain black, minimal, more like something a thief would wear than a performer.
Kiri is already tugging his on and testing the breathing holes. “This one’s great. Airflow’s better than last year.”
I laugh. “Only you would get excited about air circulation.”
He shrugs. “Some of us like surviving the set.”
The mood is easy again, the tension from last night fading into the buzz of work. I glance around the stage, the lights, the crew, the band finally in sync again, and it's a little like home.
The crowd hits like thunder, the lights drop, bass carrying us. We step straight into our ritual of sound. The second my boots hit thestage, I feel it, the pulse, the electricity, Berlin bleeding through the floor. It’s in my chest before the first chord even lands, metallic and hot, a living thing. Ronan’s already grinning like a sinner at confession, twirling his sticks. Kiri’s got that monk focus, head bowed over the bass. Rithy, hungover and hollow-eyed, still moves like sin made human, swaggering like the devil on his night off.
We open withHymn for the Hollow. The noise is instant. ByCathedral Static, the whole place is shaking, hands in the air, voices cracked, that collective ache that makes live music feel like a grasp at the transcendent. That song always hits different. It’s one of ours from the early days, when the four of us were just broke kids writing about pain like it meant something.
Rithy usually floats through it, lost, pacing, but tonight he’s moving closer. I catch it between chords, keep playing. The verse slides into the instrumental break, the part where our guitars braid together. The crowd starts clapping in time.
Then he moves. First, his veil. He pulls it down slowly, just enough to expose his mouth. Then that teasing wink, a reveal on his terms, not the shaky-camera-in-a-hotel-lobby kind, and he’s loving it. The audience screams, cameras flash, and my pulse spikes. I lean into the mic like it’s part of the act, but my gut knows better. This isn’t for them.It’s for me.
He keeps coming. Still playing, still locked on me. I match him automatically, the thread of our old pattern, showmanship, habit. But there’s something in his eyes now, wild, decided. Before I can think, he’s there.
He rolls into me, guitars almost touching. Then he reaches up and pulls my veil down with a quick tug, the heavier fabric tilting, my mouth suddenly free. He’s blocking most of the view, though I doubt it’s for my benefit. This is all part of his plan. My instinct is to shovehim off, yank it back up, anything. But I know that would only make it worse. So I play along. Pretend it’s all part of the show.
His eyes find mine, angry and searching for an answer. Then he demands one. A kiss, fast and rough. Everything he’s been holding in, everything the veil was keeping between us. He grips the back of my neck, holds me there just long enough to make sure I feel it. It knocks me back, but I hold steady. I don’t lean in, but I let it last too long, confused by the feeling of that old spark between us. Luckily, it looks staged. We both know it isn’t. It’s in our eyes when we break apart, confusion, hurt, anger, grief,desire.Every piece of what we were, are,mightbe to each other, sealing itself tight again. The crowd detonates. Noise slams through me, every nerve lights up against my will, too much to process. He finds his focus first, that dangerous smile creeping back as he leans close enough for me to feel his breath.
“Guess you can’t run now…Watch your tempo.”
Then he’s grinning for the cameras, tossing a glance over his shoulder. He pulls my veil back up, pats my chest like we rehearsed it, then fixes his own. The rest’s a blur. My head’s roaring, hands shaking, but the next verse won’t wait. The rest of the set is a blur, a haze of rhythm, lights, and static. I play on autopilot, mouth the right words, hit every cue, but the music feels foreign in my hands. Between songs, I don’t look at him. Not once. Ronan keeps trying to catch my eye, Kiri glances between us, but I don’t break. Not until the final encore ends and the lights start to fall. The applause fades to a dull roar in my skull. My guitar’s still ringing when I step off the platform, chest heaving, hands slick with sweat and fury. I spot Rithy off-stage, already laughing with Elise pretending nothing happened. Before I can think, I’m moving, cutting through the cables and crew, every step charged with purpose. I’m done pretending.
“Whatthe fuckwas that?” I shove him before I can stop myself.
