Riffs in Time

The back lounge of the tour bus smelled like beer and stale pizza, but no one seemed to mind. I sat cross-legged on the couch, wedged between Mikey and Frank, while Gerard stood in front of us, sketchbook tucked under his arm, a nervous energy radiating off of him.

"Alright," he said, clearing his throat. "I think I finally have a concept for the album."

Ray leaned forward, intrigued. "Let's hear it."

Gerard took a deep breath. "Picture this: A dystopian world controlled by a massive pharmaceutical empire. They've convinced the public that emotions are a weakness, a disease that needs to be cured. Everyone is drugged into submission. And we—" he gestured vaguely to the group "—are the rebels trying to take them down."

How he got that from a couple of shiny lip glosses, I didn't know but I was happy we were heading the right way, regardless.

Mikey's brows shot up. "That's... actually really cool."

"Damn right it is," Frank agreed. "So what's the album called?"

Gerard grinned. "Mad Gear."

I snorted before I could stop myself. "Let's workshop that."

Frank cackled, nudging my side. "Oh, I like her."

Gerard shot me an unimpressed look. "What? You don't think it fits?"

"It fits," I said carefully. "But it could be better. More... I don't know, menacing? Or at least something that makes people immediately understand the rebellion part."

Gerard considered that, tapping his fingers against his sketchbook. "Alright, fine. We'll workshop it."

The conversation drifted after that, the hum of the bus engine filling the silence as the guys flipped through old sketches and notes, tossing out ideas between jokes and half-serious debates over what made a dystopian world feel real. I watched Gerard scribble something down, his brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together like he was finally piecing something together. There was something almost electric about the way inspiration hit him—like a switch flipping on, his entire body drawn into the creative process.

That energy carried into the night. A few hours later, we were at another gig. Like always, the crowd was electric, bodies pressed against the barricade, screaming every lyric back at them. I stood side stage, soaking it in, feeling the pulse of the music through the floorboards.

And then, in my peripheral vision—I saw her. Lindsey.

It was only a flash. A dark silhouette with sharp eyes, half-hidden in the crowd. When I turned my head fully, she was gone.

I shook it off. Just my mind playing tricks on me.

Still, the image lingered in the back of my mind for the rest of the show. Even when the set ended and we were packing up, I found myself scanning the venue, searching for something—someone—that might not even be there.

By the time we made it back to the hotel, exhaustion had settled deep in my bones. I barely had the energy to change before collapsing onto the bed, my limbs heavy with sleep. The muffled sounds of the guys moving around in their rooms faded into white noise. My eyelids drooped.

Then—shouting.

At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just the usual late-night chaos. But then, a voice cut through the quiet, sharp and unmistakable.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Mikey.

My eyes snapped open, adrenaline washing away my exhaustion in an instant.