Chapter 2
TWO
Alfie
The mixing board screamed like it was being murdered. Proper murdered, not the artistic kind we aimed for on stage, this was the sound of technology giving up on life entirely, a metallic shriek that could strip paint from walls.
"Right, who fed it after midnight?" I yanked another cable free, the connector coming loose with a reluctant pop, and the feedback shriek that followed made everyone in the venue flinch hard enough to rattle their bones.
My thumb caught the work lights as I moved, ASK > ASSUME in fading Sharpie across the skin, the letters going grey at the edges where I'd washed my hands too many times.
Should've rewritten it this morning, traced over the words until they were dark and sharp again, but we'd been too busy discovering our entire live rig had chosen violence as a lifestyle.
"That's not helping," Euan said from somewhere inside the board's guts, his Glasgow accent thickening the way it did when technology personally offended him, when machines dared to malfunction on his watch.
His hands moved with surgical precision, rings catching the work lights as he traced signal paths through the chaos of cables and components.
The man could stare noise into submission on a good day, force it to behave through sheer will and understanding.
Today wasn't a good day. Today, the noise was winning.
"Nothing's helping." Kit dropped his sticks on the drum riser with a clatter that echoed through the empty venue, bouncing off walls meant to hold a packed crowd.
Manchester leaked through his words, all soft consonants and drawn vowels that made everything sound friendlier than it was.
"In-ears are fried, click track's dead, monitors are making sounds I've only heard in horror films, and we've got—" he checked his phone, the screen lighting his tattooed forearms "—four hours until doors. "
"Three and a half," Cal corrected, not looking up from the electric kettle he definitely hadn't gotten venue clearance to plug in, the one he carried in his bass case specifically for emergencies like this.
Bristol calm, like the world wasn't ending around our ears.
His soft jumper had a hole in the elbow, the kind that happened naturally from wear rather than fashion, and his P-bass leaned against the wall like it was too tired to care about the crisis unfolding. "Tea?"
"Tea's not fixing this." I shrugged out of my pink faux-fur coat, the ridiculous thing I wore specifically to cause trouble and make people look twice, to be visible from the back of any room, and rolled up the sleeves of my charity-shop Buzzcocks tee.
The fabric was soft from too many washes, someone else's history against my skin, the screen print cracking in that perfect vintage way you couldn't fake.
My nail polish was chipped black and silver, another thing I'd meant to fix and hadn't.
Rowan stalked past in her sharp suit and trainers combo, the contrast between formal and casual that somehow made her look more intimidating rather than less.
A pencil sat behind her ear like a weapon waiting to strike, and the clipboard in her hands had enough color-coded tabs to map a small war or orchestrate a military coup.
She smelled like peppermint bark and graphite, like Christmas crossed with a tax audit, sweet and severe all at once.
"Our regular engineer has 'Alpha flu.'" Her Surrey accent could cut glass when she wanted it to, every word sharp enough to draw blood.
The polite veneer didn't fool anyone. She was furious.
"Which is label-speak for 'got leaned on.
' Someone made it clear we weren't to use him tonight. We're not using him."
"Brilliant." I kicked a flight case, and the metal rang hollow, the sound disappearing into the venue's acoustic void.
"So we've got no engineer, no working board, electrical issues that might be actual ghosts, and a sold-out crowd who'll riot if we cancel.
Actually riot, not the good kind. Not the kind that makes for great press and viral videos. "
"I've called someone." Rowan's fingers flew across her tablet, nails clicking against glass with the rapid-fire precision of someone who typed legal threats for fun. "She'll be here in twenty. Best in the Pacific Northwest, does emergency calls for impossible situations. She fixes disasters."
"She?" Kit raised an eyebrow, gaffer tape already wrapped around his fingers like rings, like armor.
The man put tape on everything, cables, cases, drum hardware, probably his feelings if he could reach them.
It was his solution to most problems. Tape it down, make it secure, keep it from breaking loose.
"Best in Seattle. Fixes disasters that would make grown men weep. Doesn't do faces, doesn't do photos, doesn't do publicity. Just the work."
The lights flickered. Once, twice, then out completely, plunging us into darkness thick enough to feel solid. Emergency lighting kicked in a second later, bathing everything in red, painting the venue the color of old blood or backstage warnings.
"Fucking perfect," I muttered, my voice echoing strangely in the crimson dimness. "Of course. Why wouldn't the power die? What's a crisis without theatrical lighting?"
The backstage door swung open with a metallic groan.
A figure moved through the red-lit chaos, and for half a second, they were just a shadow with purpose, a silhouette with intent.
Then they shoulder-checked me in the narrow hallway, solid impact that knocked me sideways into the wall, made me stumble over my own boots.
"Sorry, moving through."
The voice was low, careful, deliberately neutral in that Pacific Northwest way that smoothed out all the regional edges. But the scent—
Christ, the scent.
Neon citrus exploded through the dark like a flashbang going off inside my head.
Grapefruit zest frosted with ozone, like lightning had kissed fruit and left it electric, crackling with energy that made my teeth ache.
It crashed into me, into the blackberry and burnt sugar that lived in my skin, the fizzing cola syrup that Cal said made me smell like a corner shop sweet aisle after someone knocked over all the bottles.
My crème br?lée edges went molten, caramelizing in real-time.
Every cell in my body locked up. Muscles went rigid, breath caught halfway up my throat. The world narrowed to that scent, to the shape already disappearing toward the console, to the sound of my heartbeat trying to escape through my ribs like it wanted to follow her.
Behind me, Kit made a sound like someone had punched him in the stomach, drove all the air from his lungs in one shocked exhale.
His espresso and molasses warmth went thick, went heavy, cinnamon-sugar trembling through the air like he was shaking apart at a molecular level.
Euan had gone absolutely still, that terrifying stillness that meant his brain was either solving complex equations or having a complete system crash, all processes halted.
His hojicha and sesame brittle scent sharpened, toasted tea and maple cracking like ice under pressure, fracturing into something almost painful.
"Breathe, lads," Cal said quietly from somewhere to my left, but even he sounded strained, like the words cost him effort.
She'd already reached the console, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going in the dark.
In the emergency lighting, I could make out an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame, the suggestion of purple-black hair catching the red glow, hands that moved across the broken board like she was reading braille, like she could feel the problems through her fingertips.
"Jesus." Her voice carried perfectly in the acoustic space, clear despite the chaos. "You're broadcasting from a tin can, and your phantom power chain's begging for mercy. Who set this up, a sadist with a vendetta?"
Someone made a choked sound. Might've been me. Probably was me, judging by the way my throat felt raw.
"That frequency is too yellow." She rolled off harsh upper mids without even looking at the board, fingers moving on instinct or memory. "Need it more violet. Warmer. Like... aubergine, not lemon."
"Did she just—" My voice cracked like I was sixteen again, like I'd never been on a stage in my life.
"Synesthesia," Euan managed, barely a whisper, reverent and shocked in equal measure. "She hears in color. She hears in color."
The desk stopped screaming. Just... stopped, like she'd found the off switch for its pain.
Channels started responding instead of fighting, started behaving like they remembered they were professional equipment.
She called the compressors "lungs" and taught them to breathe while we stood there drowning in her scent, in the impossible reality of what had just happened, what was still happening.
Three Alphas. One Omega. Instant recognition that hit like a lorry doing ninety on the M1, no brakes, no warning.
My brain screamed at me. Mine. Ours. Forever. Keep her. Claim her. Never let her leave.
What came out of my mouth was, thankfully, completely different. "Will you stay on for tour? Please? We need, we clearly need help. Professional help. Your help specifically."
She turned finally, and I could see eyes that looked tired and wary and brilliant all at once, sharp with intelligence and exhaustion.
Her fox-tail tattoo caught the emergency lighting when she moved, when her sleeve rode up just enough to reveal the ink.
The design was delicate, precise, probably meant something.
"You'll pay panic rates plus hazard," she said, not a question, a statement of terms. "Double time for the crisis, triple for the electrical issues, and quadruple if anything actually catches fire."