The bass shook the beams above as I stepped into the building. Pulsing crowds of investors, producers, and journalists swirled around me, networking to their hearts’ desires. Conversations about new talent, red carpets, and upcoming tours harmonised with the feedback humming through the air.
Aurelian had signed me a month ago, and today was the day they paraded me to the industry.
Weeks of morning meetings, midday meltdowns, and late-night studio sessions had all led to this moment. They had converted an abandoned warehouse into a speakeasy. The walls were a rich brown, accented with dim golden lighting. Strobe lights bounced off the mythical statues that towered over us. As I made my way deeper, plush velvet sofas dotted the space behind dark red ropes.
God, I don’t belong here. These people are drowning in accolades.
I went to the bar and found an overwhelming selection of bottles. Burgundy roses were scattered across the back. Light bounced off golden trinkets, crystal glasses, and half-full champagne flutes.
I opted for the safe choice, a margarita, and made my way towards the stage.
I found a lone table near the front. My eyes darted between the crowd, the stage, and the crew setting up.
A soft tap landed on my shoulder. I glanced up to see Lucia grinning from ear to ear, twirling her dark curls, visibly buzzing with excitement.
“Bitch, this is fucking mental.” She gathered her long dress as she took a seat beside me, stealing a sip of my drink on her way down.
I rolled my eyes, smiling back at her.
“Dude, I know. This isn’t Ryebeck. There are actual people here. I swear I saw Harlem at the bar.”
Lucia gasped, scanning the room, trying to spot the rapper.
We went back and forth, our excitement climbing as A-listers and journalists passed by. I glanced towards the stage and noticed something projected onto the back wall.
“The Marauders,” I muttered.
“Who?” Lucia’s head snapped towards it, her eyes dimming slightly.
Before I could question her, four boys walked onto the stage and took their places.
A man with messy brown hair stepped up to the main mic. His array of silver rings glistened as he adjusted the stand. The drummer, slightly shorter, placed spare drumsticks into a small pot beside him and tested his cymbals.
To the left stood the bassist, the tallest of them all. He tuned his bass by ear, clearly showing off. A faint smile crossed his face when he noticed two women pointing at him.
And then there was the lead guitarist.
Jet-black hair framed his face, a toothpick hanging loosely from his mouth. He picked up a dark blue guitar and plucked at random strings, as if feeling it out. He moved to the front of the stage, crouching by his mic. Loop pedals surrounded him as he adjusted them.
His energy felt like static. It pulled me in.
He glanced up briefly, and our eyes locked.
The steady pulse of the room quickened.
Or maybe that was my heart.
His dark eyes held me. Heat crept across my face as he smiled. Strands of hair fell into his eyes, and when he pushed them back, his calloused hands revealed astrological tattoos.
I broke the moment first.
Girl, relax.
“Oi, Sirius.”
He turned towards the others gathered at the centre of the stage, then glanced back at me before joining them.
I looked over at Lucia. A dark frown had settled on her face.
“Luce, what’s up?” I followed her gaze. She was staring intently at the drummer.
“Oooh, a crush?” I teased.
She turned to me, serious.
“No. That’s—”
A single chord cut her off, echoing through the speakers. The room shifted as attention snapped to the stage.
“We are The Marauders, and this first song is Velvet Static.”
Synths and sporadic drum patterns circled my ears. Each chord vibrated through the tables. In the corner of my eye, journalists scribbled notes and recorded voice memos, preparing the articles that might decide our fate.
The melody moved through the crowd so naturally that, for a moment, networking stopped. People just listened.
There were slight inconsistencies in the loops, minor timing slips, but they used them. Twisted them into something that felt otherworldly.
Established artists tapped their feet, searching for connection. Their faces gave nothing away.
Did they like it?
Hate it?
Label representatives leaned into quiet conversations, debating who discovered whom and what they brought to the table.
On stage, the boys were at home.
The drummer, once shy, came alive behind the kit, confidence radiating from him. The lead singer carried a cocky, playful edge, shifting effortlessly from deep lows to airy falsetto. His voice commanded the room, and no one resisted.
Sirius moved with the music. His fingers danced across the strings as his head swayed with the rhythm. He and the bassist leaned into each other, as if blending their sound through movement alone.
The singer took control of the space, weaving between his bandmates before jumping into the crowd. He serenaded people as he passed, lingering by those who seemed unimpressed.
On his way back, he stopped at our table.
Energy and control. Interesting.
He winked at me, then took Lucia’s hand and pressed a light kiss to it before slipping back onto the stage.
We dissolved into laughter, still moving to the music.
As I melted into the sound, a voice cut in beside me.
“Naomi.”
I turned to see Elise from the office. Her usual ponytail had been replaced with a tight slicked-back bun. The sweater vest and jeans were gone, swapped for a floor-length gown.
“The executives want you and Lucia backstage.”
She didn’t wait for a response. As we scrambled to our feet, she was already moving. We grabbed our drinks and hurried after her, stumbling slightly in our heels.
At the door, she held it open, then swiftly took the glasses from our hands.
“You can drink after.”
She placed them on a nearby table and ushered us forward.
As Elise stormed ahead, Lucia doubled back, grabbed her glass, and downed it in one go.
“I’m not giving up a free marg,” she muttered, following quickly.
We moved deeper into the building as the song ended behind us, the crowd erupting. A sharper, more upbeat drumline bled through the walls.
