Chapter 9 – Bells
BELLS
My voice is finally finding its fucking place.
We're three songs into the setlist when something clicks. Like a key turning in a lock that's been stuck for years.
I feel it in my bones. In the way Phoenix adjusts his tempo to match my phrasing without me having to ask.
In the way Rafael slides into the pocket I leave for him, filling space I didn't know I was creating.
In the way Rex's guitar answers my vocals like we're having a conversation in a language neither of us knew we spoke.
This is what music is supposed to be.
"Crimson Throne" bleeds into "Ashes" without anyone calling for a break.
The transition happens organically, like the songs have been sitting next to each other all along, just waiting for us to notice.
I pour everything into the lyrics. The grief that isn't mine but feels like it could be, the rage that definitely is, and the desperate hope underneath all of it.
When the final chord fades, the silence is different than the tense, awkward silence of before.
"That was..." Phoenix starts, then shakes his head, grinning like an idiot. "That was fucking it."
Rafael spins his bass around, letting it hang from the strap while he stretches. "We haven't sounded like that since—"
He cuts himself off. Doesn't finish the sentence.
We all know what he was going to say.
Since Nash.
Rex doesn't move from his position by the amp, guitar still in his hands. But his posture has shifted. Less rigid. Less like he's bracing for an attack. He's looking at me, and for once I can't read what's behind that single visible eye.
"Again," Rex says. "From the top."
So we do it again. And again. Each run-through tighter than the last, each transition smoother, each moment of improvisation landing exactly where it should. By the fifth pass, I'm drenched in sweat and my throat is starting to protest, but I don't want to stop.
Neither does anyone else.
Carmine has been watching from the corner the entire time, perched on a stool with his tablet balanced on his knee. He hasn't said a word since we started. Just observes, takes notes, and occasionally types something I can't see.
His expression gives away nothing.
When we finally call for a water break, I collapse onto the ratty couch shoved against the back wall. Phoenix tosses me a bottle, which I catch with fingers that are shaking from adrenaline more than exhaustion.
"Bells."
Carmine's voice cuts through the post-rehearsal buzz. He's standing now, tablet tucked under his arm, and he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite parse.
"Got a minute?"
Phoenix and Rafael exchange glances. Rex's eye narrows slightly, tracking Carmine's movement across the room like he's a threat that needs monitoring.
"Sure." I push myself up from the couch, legs wobbling slightly. "What's up?"
Carmine gestures toward the hallway, away from the others. Not private, exactly—the studio door is open, and anyone could hear us if they tried—but separate.
I follow him out, hyperaware of Rex's gaze burning into my back.
The hallway is cooler than the studio, the air less thick with the smell of sweat and old equipment. Carmine leans against the wall, arms crossed, studying me with that unreadable expression.
"You're magic with them," he says finally.
I blink. "What?"
"The band. The chemistry." He shakes his head slowly, like he's still processing what he just witnessed.
"I've been in this industry for over two decades.
I've seen a hell of a lot of artists trying to manufacture something that looks like connection.
What you four have in there?" He gestures back toward the studio. "That was real."
I don't know what to say. Compliments from music industry professionals usually come with strings attached—you're great, but or impressive, however. Carmine's tone doesn't have any of that. Just straightforward assessment from someone who knows what he's looking at.
"Rex is… difficult," Carmine continues. "Everyone knows that. He's burned through vocalist after vocalist. But you…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You complement his sound, but you challenge it too. Push it somewhere it hasn't been before."
I snort. "Oh, I push him, alright. Push his buttons."
Carmine's lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. I came into this assignment expecting damage control. Crisis management. I'm leaving today thinking this tour might actually be something special."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me standing in the hallway with his words echoing in my ears.
Something special.
Damn, that feels… good.
Provided Carmine is genuine, of course. But I've developed a pretty fucking good read on people, and this guy doesn't have any of the usual signs of being a bullshit artist.
And I let myself believe it for exactly thirty seconds. Let myself feel just a little twinge of hope for a future where this actually works out. Where I finally get to create something that matters. Hell, maybe I'll even get to leave my mark on the world.
My mark.
When I walk back into the studio, Phoenix is crouched over his drum kit, carefully loosening the snare head while Rafael wipes down his bass strings with a cloth. Neither of them is talking much.
Shit, I think I actually traumatized these poor alphas. Hope they can't tell I think it's kind of cute.
"What'd Carmine want?" Phoenix asks without looking up.
"Just wanted to tell me we don't suck."
Rafael snorts. "High praise from a label suit."
"Right? I'm basically ready to frame it." I grab my water bottle from the couch, draining the last lukewarm inch. "Where's Rex?"
"He left," Phoenix says. "Like, right after you went into the hall with Carmine. Didn't say anything. Just packed up his guitar and walked out."
I sigh. "What else is new?"
"Yeah, but..." Phoenix straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's not answering texts."
I want to brush it off and chalk it up to Rex being Rex. Brooding somewhere, licking wounds I don't understand. That's his MO. Disappear, sulk, emerge eventually with renewed hostility and maybe a sick new song.
The rehearsal was good. Better than good. The kind of session that makes you remember why you got into music in the first place.
So why does my stomach feel like it's trying to digest itself?
"Let's head back to the penthouse," I say finally. "He'll surface eventually. Always does."
Phoenix doesn't look convinced, but he starts breaking down his kit anyway. Rafael zips his bass case closed. I gather my shit—water bottle, phone, the hoodie I shed three songs in when the heat became unbearable since I had on a binder and a loose enough t-shirt beneath it.
The drive back is quieter than usual. Phoenix is behind the wheel of his SUV, Rafael riding shotgun, me sprawled across the back seat trying not to think about why my nerves are buzzing like someone ran an electric current through them.
We're almost to the penthouse when our phones start going off.
"What the fuck?" Rafael twists in his seat, pulling out his own phone. His face goes slack. "Oh. Oh, shit."
Phoenix glances over. "What?"
"Pull over."
"We're like three blocks from—"
"Phoenix. Pull the fuck over."
The tone in Rafael's voice makes Phoenix jerk the wheel toward the curb so fast I slide across the back seat. We're barely stopped before Rafael is shoving his phone toward Phoenix, and I'm finally looking at my own screen.
The notifications are a blur. Every social media app I have is hemorrhaging alerts, the numbers climbing in real-time like some kind of nightmare stock ticker.
I tap one at random.
And my heart stops.
It's a photo.
Rex.
Not Rex in a mask. Not Rex half-shadowed in a tunnel, glimpsed for a fraction of a second before he turned away from me with a snarl.
This is Rex in surgical lighting, every detail captured in merciless high-definition. This is the kind of clinical documentation that belongs in a medical file, not splashed across the Internet for the entire world to consume.
I can't look away.
The damage is...
Extensive doesn't cover it. The right side of his face is gone. There's no other way to describe it. Pink and white scar tissue webbed across melted flesh like lightning frozen mid-strike, his right eye open even though it shouldn’t be, and I see teeth on the right side of his mouth but I scroll past it fast because I feel like I’m betraying him by looking at this.
I see enough to know what I saw in that tunnel was nothing.
A glimpse. A shadow. The barest hint of what actually lies beneath the mask he guards more fiercely than his own life.
This is why he can't eat in front of anyone. Why he can't drink without the liquid seeping through. Why he has no mirrors in his room and hates himself even though he's an insanely skilled guitarist who fills arenas.
I scroll without thinking. Comment after comment after comment, the Internet feeding frenzy in full swing.
MONSTER
holy shit is this real
fake af no way
this has to be photoshop right???
imagine fucking that lmaooo
CALLED IT
everyone knew something was wrong with him
he looks like a fucking zombie
this is so fucked up actually
MONSTER
"Phoenix." Rafael's voice is barely recognizable. "Phoenix, look at me."
I tear my eyes from my phone long enough to see Phoenix's face. He's gone pale. Not just pale, but gray, all the color drained out like someone pulled a plug. His hands are shaking where they grip the steering wheel.
"He's going to lose his fucking mind," Rafael says quietly. "This is—Rex has spent so many years making sure no one ever sees—and now every single person—"
Phoenix's forehead drops to the steering wheel.
"I'm going to find him."
The words are out of my mouth before I've consciously decided to say them. I'm already reaching for the door handle, already moving, my body operating on autopilot while my brain scrambles to catch up.
"Bells, wait!" Phoenix says, lifting his head so fast he almost gives himself whiplash and scrambling for his own door. "It's fucking pouring rain and you don't even know where he is!"
I don't have an answer for that. Don't have a logical explanation for why I'm so certain I need to be the one to go, or how I'm supposed to find someone who doesn't want to be found before he does something stupid and permanent.
But something's pulling me. Scent match bullshit, I guess. Or maybe just instinct.
Or maybe I'm losing my fucking mind.
Doesn't matter.
"I'll find him," I say again.
I'm out of the car and taking off toward the treeline before either of them can stop me. I hear Phoenix and Raf's boots slamming against the asphalt and then the wet dirt, yelling after me as they chase me, but I'm faster and more agile than Phoenix.
When Raf leaps for me, it's a moment too late. His hand closes on thin air and I hear him snarl as his boot slips and he slams into the mud.
Maybe a white rabbit is the perfect motif for me after all.