The energy inside the venue throbbed like a living thing. The crowd was a sea of limbs and sweat, pulsing with the beat of anticipation. At the edge of it all, the underground band Amp Rush took the stage to a roar of cheers. The amps crackled to life. The air practically buzzed.

Backstage, tucked in a shadowed corner behind a stack of crates, Tuck was hunched over a modified transmitter rig. The screen glowed green, flickering with radio frequencies and signal reports. Around the city’s edge, a network of rogue roadies was on standby — posted at abandoned towers and repurposed antenna arrays, ready to bounce the concert to radios across the state.

Tuck’s fingers flew over the dials. “Everyone ready?” his voice crackled over the line.

“We’re set here,” came one voice.

“Signal’s clear,” said another.

Tuck grinned. “Alright then. Let’s give ’em a show.”

The first chord exploded from the speakers — raw, defiant, alive. It slammed through the warehouse and out through the hijacked signals. Within moments, static-filled radios in small towns and border cities lit up with music banned from the airwaves. Music that still mattered.

Out in the crowd, Louis lingered near the back, soaking it in — wide-eyed, breath shallow, as if he’d stumbled into another world entirely.

Sona turned to Louis, her eyes glowing in the pulsing light. “Come on,” she grinned, reaching her hand out towards him. “Let’s dance!”

He blinked. “Dance?”

Before he could hesitate, she pulled him into the throng, into the rhythm. The crowd parted just enough for them to find space near the stage, bathed in strobing light and drenched in sound. Guitars wailed, drums pounded like war cries, and the vocals soared with rage and joy all at once.

Sona moved with the beat like she was born in it—fluid, wild, free. She didn’t care who was watching. Her arms raised, her body twisting with the music, a storm moving to the melody. Louis stood for a second, stunned—then he laughed, the sound getting lost in the chaos. He let go.

They moved together in sync, a swirl of motion and color in the dark. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was real. Hair sticking to skin, boots slamming the floor, breaths shared in flashes of light. Sona spun into him, face lit up like fire, and for a moment the world shrank to just them. Just this.

Her fingers brushed against his as they danced, and Louis felt something crash into his chest—something electric and wordless. A high no substance could match. He wasn’t just watching rebellion tonight. He was in it. He was hers. He didn’t have to say it. She already knew.

And just above them, unseen by all, the Bird still watched.

It wasn’t a bird at all — not really. Sleek, angular, mechanical. A reconnaissance drone built by Iris Corp and integrated into their new policing protocol. Its sight zoomed in and out, scanning the crowd. Faces logged. Frequencies traced. Risk levels assessed. Reporting the information to the Iris Corporation. But its system stuttered when it locked onto one person in particular.

A girl. Red hair. Shirt reading: ROCK ON.

Data flooded in. Rock On — legacy group, eliminated. Cultural impact: suppressed. Status: defunct.

Yet here she was. Alive. Loud. Unafraid.

The drone kept watching… but no report was sent of her.

Not yet.

Backstage, Tuck monitored everything from a cluttered workstation. The music pulsed in his bones. For the first time in a while, he felt it — that spark. Then something shifted. A red alert blinked across his screen.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “We’ve been tagged.”

A ping had come through the city’s private security network. They were moving.

He keyed his radio. “Pack it up. They’re on us.”

A grunt came through the line — Pops. Terse, as always, but quick to react.

“Isaac, Arven,” Tuck snapped. “Get Amp Rush off stage and scatter. Now.”

The venue transformed in seconds. Chaos, but organized — trained. Arven vaulted onto a stack of crates and cupped his hands.

“Alright people! You know the drill! Move fast, move clean!”

Panic didn’t spread — adrenaline did. The crowd scattered into practiced escape paths. Runners peeled out on decoy routes. Sound equipment vanished into false walls and trapdoors. This wasn’t the first raid, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Tuck stepped down from his setup and grabbed Sona by the arm.

“You, Louis. Out. Now.”

“But—” she started.

“You’re both still young,” Tuck said, gripping her shoulder. “Won’t do either of you any good to get caught now. Not when there’s still work to do.”

Louis was already looking to her, concerned. But she pulled it together fast.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand.

They dashed through the rear corridors, slipping past crates and fuse boxes, finally reaching the alley where Sona’s bike waited. She mounted, kicked the engine to life. Louis slid in behind her just as the sound of sirens wailed faintly in the distance.

Then they were off — tires screeching, wind ripping past them as the city blurred into streaks of neon and shadow. The world peeled past them like film burning in reverse, every turn a memory twisting into smoke.

Above them, the Bird followed.

Its wings sliced silently through the air, trailing the pair from above. A dozen other escapees scattered across the map, but the drone followed just these two. Something in its system flagged her as… anomalous. Something worth watching. Not reporting. Not yet.

The bike twisted through side streets and back alleys. Louis held on tight, heart racing, mind blank. He didn’t know where they were going, and he didn’t care.

Behind them, the night burned louder.

And within Omega — buried somewhere in its endless, mechanical thought — a question began to form.

Something it had never been programmed to ask.