Talia's Tune

The stale scent of stale beer and desperation—the unmistakable perfume of his father’s ghost—clung to the practice space like a bad habit. Lyric ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, the worn leather of his jacket creaking a familiar protest. Crimson Reign The Legacy, his band, his *thing*, was supposed to be his escape from the suffocating embrace of Adrian Blackwell’s shadow. But tonight, even the raw power of their amps felt muted, like a whisper in a hurricane.

“Dude, are you even listening?” Jax’s voice, usually a thunderclap from behind the drum kit, was a frustrated rumble. “We’re supposed to be nailing this bridge, not staring into the abyss.”

Lyric blinked, pulling his gaze away from the chipped paint on the wall. The abyss, in this case, was a vivid, sun-drenched memory of Talia Vela. Her laugh, a cascade of bright, sharp notes, echoed in his mind, a stark contrast to the guttural growls of their current track.