Chapter 6 – Rex
REX
"Rex? Are you in there?"
Nash's voice filters through the bedroom door, muffled and hesitant. Always hesitant now. Like he's approaching a wounded animal instead of his own twin brother.
I don't answer.
Haven't answered in three days.
What's the point?
Every time I open my mouth, every time I let him see me, that look crosses his face.
The one he tries to hide but can't.
"I brought food. Mom made soup. The good kind, with the noodles you like."
Like soup can fix this.
Like anything can fix this.
I'm sixteen years old, and I want to die.
Not in an active way.
I'm not going to do anything about it.
But the wanting is there, constant as a heartbeat. Every morning I wake up and for one blissful second I forget. Then I move, feel the pull of damaged skin, and remember.
Remember the fire.
The screaming.
Nash's hands reaching for me through the flames, grabbing my arm, pulling, pulling, but the twisted metal had me pinned and the fire was eating my face and I could smell myself cooking—
"Rex. Please."
Something cracks in Nash's voice. That raw edge of guilt that makes me want to punch through the wall because it's not his fault.
None of this is his fault.
But try telling him that.
"Go away," I finally say, and my voice comes out wrong. Distorted.
"I can't." The door handle rattles. "Rex, you've been in there for a week. You have to eat. You have to—"
"Have to what?" I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, crossing the room in three strides, yanking the door open with enough force that it bangs against the wall. "Have to what, Nash? Show my face? Go back to school? Pretend everything's fucking fine?"
Nash stumbles backward, soup sloshing in the bowl he's holding. His eyes—the same ice blue as mine—meet mine for exactly one second.
One second where I see everything.
Love. Horror. Guilt so thick it's choking him. And underneath all of it, that animal instinct that screams wrong wrong wrong at the sight of me.
Then he looks away.
My own twin. The other half of me.
He can't do it.
"You can't even look at me," I say, and my voice is hollow. Empty. "My own brother can't even look at me unless I wear a fucking mask."
"Rex, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I—"
"STOP."
He does. Stands there with soup cooling in his hands, shoulders shaking, looking everywhere but at me.
"Okay," Nash whispers. "Okay, Rex. I'll stop."
Something's wrong with his voice.
It's too… wet.
I watch a bead of red slide from his nostril.
Then another.
Then his right eyelid begins to droop, the skin softening like wax held too close to flame as the corner of his mouth rips open until his entire cheek is torn into a demonic grin. His tongue and his teeth are visible through his torn mouth as he tries to speak and can only gurgle on his own blood.
Death eats him alive until his face mirrors mine exactly.
I jerk awake with a snarling gasp.
The penthouse ceiling stares back at me. Industrial beams. Exposed ductwork. Not my bedroom. Not Nash's decomposing face sloughing off in front of me.
Just the living room.
Just another fucking nightmare.
My hand flies to my face automatically—checking, always fucking checking—and finds the mask still in place.
Of course it is.
I don't take it off. Ever. Not even to sleep, which I apparently did at some point despite my best intentions to stay awake.
The cushions are damp with sweat. My shirt clings to my chest, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my temples, my wrists, the hollow of my throat. The phantom smell of smoke and cooking flesh lingers in my nostrils, and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging.
Nash.
Fucking Nash.
The nightmares still haven't stopped. If anything, they've gotten worse. More vivid. More detailed. Like my subconscious has decided to torture me with increasingly creative renditions of everything I've lost.
I scrub my hand over the left side of my face and force myself to sit up. The penthouse is dark except for the ambient glow of Seattle's skyline through the massive windows. Rain streaks the glass in silver rivulets, blurring the city lights into abstract smears.
That's when I notice I'm not alone.
Rafael is sprawled across the sectional, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open in sleep.
What the fuck.
I gave up my room—my fortress, my only safe space in this entire godforsaken building—so Bells could feel secure.
Bells is in my room.
I'm in Rafael's room.
Rafael is supposed to be in Phoenix's room. With Phoenix, who he has been mostly avoiding since they came back from their jaunt with Bells after the industry party.
Other than the coffee shop.
And the grocery store, apparently. They cleared out the meal replacement shakes I drink, and Phoenix even cooked tonight. Pasta. I didn't eat with them. The shakes are enough.
I'd thought—hoped, even—that Phoenix and Raf had gotten over whatever weird energy they have going on if they all went out again together today.
Guess not.
This is like one of those stupid logic puzzles where you have to get a cabbage, a bull, a wolf, a bunny, and a farmer across the river. Except in this version, the wolf is too awkward to get in the boat with the bull.
I don't even know if I have the animals right.
I don't give a shit.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter under my breath, stretching until my bones pop.
Rafael doesn't stir. He's always been a heavy sleeper, the kind who could pass out on a tour bus going over speed bumps and not wake up until someone physically shook him.
It used to drive Nash crazy during long drives between shows.
The dream claws at the edges of my consciousness, trying to drag me back under. I shove it down and reach for my phone instead.
Three in the fucking morning.
I should try to sleep more. Should go to Rafael's room—my temporary room—and lie in the dark and pretend I'm not waiting for the next nightmare to find me.
Instead, I open my email.
Habit, mostly. The label I've been in touch with behind the scenes has been dragging their feet on the comeback deal, and I've been checking obsessively for any sign of movement. Not that I expect good news at this hour. Corporate types don't send emails at 3 AM.
The inbox loads.
And there it is.
RE: Vespyr - Contract Renewal and Tour Proposal
From Meridian Records. Timestamp: 2:45 AM. Someone's either a workaholic or they scheduled this specifically to fuck with my sleep cycle.
I tap the email open, eyes scanning the corporate pleasantries and legal jargon.
Dear Mr. Steele,
We are pleased to inform you that after careful consideration, Meridian Records has agreed to move forward with the proposed contract and comeback tour for Vespyr.
My chest loosens slightly.
Fucking finally.
After a solid week of back-and-forth, after jumping through every bureaucratic hoop they could throw at us, we're actually getting somewhere.
But the relief is short-lived.
However, given the circumstances surrounding the band's recent restructuring, as well as concerns regarding public perception and tour logistics, the label has attached several conditions to this agreement.
Of course they fucking have. Because nothing in this industry comes without strings attached.
I scroll down, past more legalese about revenue splits and promotional obligations.
Condition 3: Management Oversight
In light of the band's transition period and the addition of new vocalist Bells, Meridian Records will be assigning a dedicated manager to oversee all aspects of the comeback tour.
This individual will serve as the primary liaison between the band and the label, ensuring consistent communication and adherence to agreed-upon promotional strategies.
The assigned manager will be Carmine Caruso, a seasoned industry professional with extensive experience in artist development and tour management. Mr. Caruso has successfully overseen campaigns for several of our top-tier acts and comes highly recommended by our senior leadership team.
We trust that Mr. Caruso's expertise will be invaluable during this critical phase of Vespyr's career trajectory.
A manager.
They're assigning us a fucking manager. Like we can't be trusted to handle our own careers.
I read the name again.
Carmine Caruso doesn't ring any bells—no pun intended—but that doesn't mean much. The music industry is full of faceless suits who think they know better than the artists actually creating the work.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to fire off a response that will probably burn whatever bridge we've managed to build with Meridian. But I force myself to keep reading.
Please note that acceptance of Mr. Caruso's oversight role is a non-negotiable condition of the contract offer. Failure to comply will result in the termination of negotiations and forfeiture of all proposed terms.
They're not even pretending to give us a choice.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
But I don't.
Because underneath all the rage, underneath the instinctive rejection of anyone trying to control my band, there's a voice in my head that sounds annoyingly like Nash, like he isn't fucking finished haunting me after tonight's nightmare even though I'm wide awake.
This is what you wanted, it says. A comeback. A tour. A chance to make Stephen pay for everything he took from us. Are you really going to throw that away because they want to assign a babysitter?
I hate that voice. Hate that it's right.
And if Stephen follows through on his threat—if my hideous face ends up splashed across every gossip site and tabloid—then this tour might be the only thing left.
The only legacy that matters.
Rafael shifts on the couch, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep.
I watch him for a moment, this alpha who's been with the band since the beginning, who stuck around even when everything went to shit, who's currently dressed like a yacht club reject because he spent his evening protecting a woman he barely even knew existed until I fucking blackmailed her.
A woman I refuse to hand over to Stephen no matter what it costs me. Because she's good for Vespyr.
That's all.
That's the only fucking reason.
Even though every time I blink, I see those honey-gold eyes.