Louis opened his eyes.

Soft bands of morning light stretched across the ceiling, filtered through the blinds in slow, golden slats. The fan above spun lazily, humming like a quiet engine in the silence.

He didn’t move.

The bed felt heavier today. Not just in weight, but in meaning. The kind of weight that settled on your chest and didn’t lift — like something inside him had cracked and spilled out, but left no visible trace.

His throat was dry. His stomach was hollow. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, but the thought of food didn’t even register.

“I miss her,” he thought, and the words repeated like static in his mind — looping without rhythm, without urgency, just there.

He stared at the ceiling.

“Does she even miss me?” he whispered aloud.

The fan didn’t answer.

His memory replayed the moment at the lake: Roxanne’s voice, steady and final. The way her hand let go. The sound of her footsteps as she walked away.

But then the memory changed.

Her hair was shorter. Red. She turned to smile over her shoulder — and it wasn’t Roxanne anymore.

It was the girl from the street.

The one who handed him the charm.

The one who said her name like a spark: Sona.

He blinked.

“…Why am I thinking about her?”

The silence gave no reply.

Eventually, he sat up, moving like it hurt. He pulled on a shirt, then shoes. No destination in mind. Just a restless ache.

“I need air.”

The wind outside was brisk, colder than expected. The streets were quieter than usual, campus only half-awake. He walked without a clear sense of direction — just moving, just breathing.

A small café caught his eye.

Re, it said in blocky white letters, tucked between a used bookstore and a printing shop. He didn’t know if it was new or if he’d just never noticed it before.

Inside, the scent of roasted beans drifted in waves. Wooden shelves lined the walls, and soft music played on a dusty stereo in the corner.

The barista greeted him with a practiced smile.

“What can I get started for you?”

“Medium coffee,” Louis murmured. “Black.”

He took the cup and drifted to a seat by the window. The warmth in his hands felt foreign. He sipped.

For a second, the bitterness cut through the fog.

Then—

“Louis!?”

He turned.

A familiar voice. One he hadn’t heard in years.

“Isaac?”

Isaac approached with a grin and a cup of his own, sliding into the seat across from him without hesitation.

“Dude. No way. I haven’t seen you since graduation.”

“Yeah,” Louis said with a tired smile. “It’s been a while.”

Isaac studied him for a second. “You alright? You look like you walked through a storm on the inside.”

Louis let out a breath. “Breakup. Yesterday.”

“Oof.” Isaac winced. “That’ll do it.”

They sat in silence for a beat, sipping.

Isaac leaned back. “You still playing?”

“Yeah. Upright bass. Conservatory nearby.”

“Knew it,” Isaac said. “You always had that look — quiet until you touched an instrument.”

Louis chuckled softly. “Still feels like the only thing I’m good at.”

“Hey, it counts.”

The conversation started slow, but found a rhythm. Old memories surfaced. Shared classes. School concerts. One failed attempt to rally their classmates to some underground show years ago.

Louis smirked. “You remember that one time we tried to organize a group to sneak into that off-campus concert?”

Isaac laughed. “Half the group chickened out, and the other half didn’t even know what venue to look for.”

Louis raised a brow. “Did you ever end up going to one?”

“Oh yeah,” Isaac said, lowering his voice. “More than a few.”

Louis leaned in, surprised. “Seriously? Where? I looked around, but it’s like they don’t exist.”

Isaac grinned. “They’re not meant to. You don’t find them on flyers or websites. They don’t want crowds. They want believers.”

Louis blinked. “Sounds intense.”

Isaac shrugged. “There’s a system. Roadies, scouts, rumor-trails. You hear a name, you follow the static. That’s how it works.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled napkin. Scribbled on it: coordinates, time, a name.

Louis ran his fingers across the ink.

“Saturday night,” Isaac said. “Outskirts of the city. No cameras. No cops. Just music.”

Louis looked up. “You going?”

“Wish I could, but I’m working that night. Besides...” Isaac smirked. “This one’s special. Thought of you the second I heard about it.”

Louis pocketed the napkin. “What’s the band?”

Isaac leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. “They call themselves Rock On. But the lead? They call her the Singing Asura. You’ll know why when you hear her.”

When Louis got home, the apartment was quiet. Mark stood by the door, adjusting his jacket and checking his keys.

“Hey,” he said. “Not heading to class?”

Louis hesitated. “Taking a break.”

Mark glanced over. Said nothing for a moment. Then walked to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Your life, your pace,” he said. “But don’t let the fog turn into a cliff.”

Louis nodded. “I won’t.”

Mark gave him a small smile. “Be safe. I’ll be home late.”

Then he was gone.

The next few days passed like syrup.

Louis didn’t practice. Didn’t text anyone. He found himself reading articles about the music ban — old forums, cracked videos of raids, handheld footage of police storming crowds. Some real, some probably fake.

It made his chest tighten. But he couldn’t look away.

He thought of Roxanne. Of his last orchestra concert. Of how perfect the notes had been, and how none of it mattered.

Maybe this is what I need, he thought.

Not a performance. Not applause. Just… something real.

Saturday came.

He sat at his desk, napkin in hand, staring at the faded ink like it might vanish if he blinked too long. His bag was packed. His phone charged. He’d mapped the route twice.

But he still couldn’t move.

It wasn’t until the sun had started to sink behind the skyline, streaking the streets in firelight, that he finally stood. Pulled on a jacket. Locked the door.

He drove.

Out past the city’s edge, where the buildings gave way to flat earth and radio silence. The warehouse appeared on the horizon like something half-remembered — part ruin, part beacon.

He parked. Got out.

The ground shook with the bass. Music bled through the walls like light through a wound.

He stepped inside.

Fog rolled across the floor. Lights swung overhead like spotlights on a battlefield. The crowd moved as one — no rhythm, no choreography, just need.

The energy hit him like heat.

Then the voice.

“THANK YOU, ROCKERS, FOR COMING OUT TONIGHT! WE GOT ONE LAST SONG—SO LET’S MAKE IT COUNT!"

The crowd roared. The lights blazed. The band launched into their final track.

And then he saw her.

At the front of it all — like fire and thunder — stood Sona.

Guitar in hand. Boots planted wide. Her voice shattered the air like glass, then stitched it back together with raw melody.

She wasn’t just singing.

She was commanding.

Every word cracked with fury. Every chord was a blow to the silence. She looked like a storm that had learned how to sing.

Louis stood frozen.

And then — she looked at him.

Through the haze, through the crowd, her eyes found his. And she smiled.

A small, knowing thing. Like she'd expected him.

And before he knew it, he smiled back.

The song ended in a burst of feedback and cheers.

“EVEN IF THE WHOLE WORLD’S AGAINST US—WE ROCK ON!”

The crowd screamed. People clapped, whistled, shouted. But Louis couldn’t move.

She stepped offstage. Lit a cigarette. The lights dimmed. The haze began to settle.

Then — she spotted him again. And this time, she walked over.

“Wait… Louis, right?” she said, tilting her head. “We bumped into each other the other day, didn’t we?”

He turned slowly. “Yeah. You remembered?”

She exhaled smoke, then smiled. “Hard to forget.”

He hesitated. “You were… incredible.”

Sona raised a brow. “I know. Wanna come backstage?”

The green room was dim and cluttered, filled with crates, cables, half-eaten snacks, and laughter echoing down the hall.

Sona leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So how’d you end up here?”

“Old friend,” Louis said. “Isaac.”

Her brow lifted. “Isaac? That smooth-talking rhythm geek?”

Louis smiled faintly. “That’s the one.”

Sona smirked. “He’s Pops’ apprentice. Didn’t know he was still handing out napkins like golden tickets.”

“Pops?”

“Head roadie. Real quiet type, built like a jukebox, been around since forever. If Isaac sent you, it means he vouched for you.”

Louis looked down at the napkin still in his pocket. “Guess I got lucky.”

“Nah,” Sona said. “Pops doesn’t do luck. If you ended up here, someone wanted you here.”

They talked. About music. About risk. About the world between silence and noise. She listened like someone who already knew what he was going to say — but needed to hear him say it anyway.

“Music’s how I fight,” she said, voice quieter now. “How I remember.”

Louis looked at her, curious. “Remember what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted — not away from him, but back into herself.

“People,” she said finally. “Places. What it cost.”

Her tone didn’t invite more questions. But it didn’t shut him out either.

Louis nodded slowly. He didn’t press further.

But in the silence that followed, something unspoken passed between them — not trust, not yet. But something close to it.

“I play too,” he said. “Upright bass. Since I was a kid.”

She looked at him. “Ever tried electric?”

He hesitated. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Try again.”

He blinked. “What?”

She pushed off the wall. “We’re short a bassist. Isa’s been filling in, but she’s really a guitarist. You interested?”

He stared.

“I… might be.”

“Then come meet the others,” she said, already walking. “Let’s find out if you’ve still got fight in your fingers.”

He followed.

They reached the next room. Music thumped beyond the walls. Voices rang out — tuning, laughing, arguing, alive.

At the door, she paused.

“This isn’t just music,” she said. “It’s rebellion.”

Louis looked at her. His heart was still racing. His body still humming from the concert.

He nodded. “I know.”

She smiled.

Then she opened the door.

And Louis stepped through — not into a room, but into something electric, dangerous, and alive.

Something that might finally make him feel whole again.