Louis stepped through the door after Sona and into a room that felt like the heart of the building.

It wasn’t a studio. It wasn’t a green room. It was both — and neither. A hybrid of gear storage, rehearsal space, and secondhand living room. String lights hung like constellations over old couches, cracked amps, and half-zipped duffel bags bursting with cables. The walls were scrawled with faded sharpie messages — inside jokes, song lyrics, names long forgotten.

Isa was on the floor coiling cables, her silver-and-green hair tied up messily. Arven knelt beside a drum kit, arms rolled to the elbow, forearms dusted with chalk and sweat.

Sona didn’t announce him dramatically. She just said, “Guys,” and gave a casual nod. “This is Louis. He caught our set tonight.”

Isa glanced up. Her eyes scanned Louis for a split-second — sharp, perceptive.

“Hey,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” Then, half to Sona, half to Louis: “So… what’s the story?”

Arven stood and wiped his palms on his jeans, offering a hand. His grip was firm, steady — not overpowering. “Yeah, how’d you end up backstage?”

Louis hesitated. Not because he didn’t know what to say — but because it felt important to say it right.

“A friend tipped me off,” he said. “Told me this band was the real deal. I didn’t really know what to expect, but…” He met Sona’s eyes. “I felt something tonight. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

Sona leaned back against a cluttered table, arms folded. She didn’t speak, but there was approval in her gaze. She was watching the way he spoke — not just the words.

“Louis plays upright bass,” she added. “Classical background. Conservatory type.”

Isa raised her eyebrows, a grin twitching at the corner of her mouth. “From black tie to black stage. Damn.”

Arven chuckled. “That’s a shift, alright. You ever even touched an electric?”

“Once or twice,” Louis said. “It’s different. But maybe different’s what I need right now.”

Isa tossed the last coiled cable into a bin and stood, stretching. “We’ve got an open slot, so it might be worth seeing if you can ride the storm.”

Louis gave a half-smile. “Let’s find out.”

Sona nodded to a ring of mismatched chairs near a dented coffee table, and the group eased into a loose semicircle. Louis lowered himself onto a worn armchair, the springs creaking beneath him.

Even with the clutter — maybe because of it — the room had a kind of warmth.

Not polished. But honest.

Isa wandered over to a corner and picked up a weathered bass guitar, the strings dulled from use. She offered it out.

Louis stared at it for a beat too long.

“You nervous?” Isa asked, not unkindly.

“A little,” he admitted.

“Good,” she said. “Means you’re not faking it.”

He took the bass. It was lighter than his upright, but not by much. Still heavy — in a different way. Its weight settled into his lap, unfamiliar but solid. His fingers curled over the frets instinctively, but the posture felt off — angled, compact.

He rolled his shoulders. Adjusted his grip.

Sona scribbled something on a scrap of notepaper and handed it over. A rough rhythm sketch. Barebones structure. Scattered notes.

“Passus,” she said. “Still in early shape. Raw, uncut.”

Arven gave a short nod. “It’s got some bite.”

Isa leaned back. “Let’s see if you can track it without getting eaten.”

Louis took a breath.

And then he played.

At first, it was clumsy. His fingers slipped on the fretboard. The spacing threw him. But then — a beat clicked. A downstroke landed in the right pocket. And the groove caught his spine.

He settled in.

Arven tapped a soft rhythm on the snare rim. Isa chimed in with clean, muted chords that danced around his low end. Sona didn’t sing yet — just listened, swaying subtly with the beat, head tilted, eyes half-lidded.

Louis kept going. His right hand found a rhythm. His left adapted — not perfect, but steady.

The bass hummed beneath the others like an anchor.

When they eased into a natural stop, Isa gave a low whistle.

“Okay, rookie,” she said. “You’ve got feel. Your hands are slow, but your gut’s fast.”

Sona looked at him — not like a performer now, but like a leader. Or maybe a believer.

“How’s it feel?” she asked.

Louis exhaled, then smiled — really smiled.

“Alive,” he said. “Like I’m actually in the music. Not just translating it.”

“Then let’s run it again,” Arven said, already moving back to his kit. “Full energy this time.”

Isa picked up her guitar, flipping the strap over her shoulder. “Thought you’d never say it.”

Sona stood and adjusted the mic stand. Her voice was calm — but charged.

“Let’s see what kind of noise we make together.”

Arven glanced at Louis. “Count us in.”

Louis looked down at the bass in his hands, then back at the others.

He nodded.

“One… two…”

The downbeat hit.

This time, they didn’t hold back. Arven slammed into the rhythm, Isa’s chords shimmered and growled, and Sona’s voice tore through the air — raw, low, real. The song didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt born in the moment.

And Louis —

Louis played like something had been waiting in him for years.

He didn’t think about Roxanne. Or the concert hall. Or failure. Or form.

He just played.

The final note rang out and hung in the air like smoke.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then: “You sure you’ve never done this before?” Arven asked, grinning as he wiped his face with a rag.

Louis laughed, breathless. “First time.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Isa said.

They all slumped back into the furniture, letting the adrenaline fade. The tension gave way to easy laughter, playful teasing.

Louis looked around at them — Isa’s mischievous grin, Arven’s steady warmth, Sona’s quiet flame.

He should’ve felt like an outsider. But instead, he felt…

...invited.

For a moment, he thought of Roxy. What she would’ve said if she saw him now. If she’d recognize this version of him.

It hurt — but less than before.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t chasing the past.

He was chasing a sound.

He handed the bass back to Isa, fingers still tingling from the strings.

Sona watched him. Not with judgment — with something closer to approval. Quiet. Earned.

“Looks like we’ve got our bassist,” she said.

And Louis didn’t argue.

Because somewhere, under the static and the haze, this felt like the beginning of something real.

Something worth making noise for.