Chapter 9
NINE
Zia
The venue smelled like a wet penny held in a sweaty palm. It was a cavernous beast of a room, older than the band performing in it, with acoustics that hated clarity.
"Kick drum sounds like a cardboard box," I muttered into the talkback mic, my finger hovering over the low-mid EQ. "Kit, hit it again. Harder."
On stage, Kit grinned, teeth white against the gloom. He spun his stick, taped, always taped, and brought it down. Thud.
Better. Still muddy, but I could carve that out.
"Again."
Thud.
"Snare."
Crack.
My hands moved across the board with muscle-memory speed. I lived for this part. The calibration. The moment before the adrenaline of the show, where the math met the art. It was safe here. Just frequencies and physics. No feelings. No biology.
I reached for my water bottle, unscrewing the cap with one hand while I adjusted the gate on the floor tom.
Then the world tilted on its axis.
It started low in my belly, a heavy, hot coil of wire tightening suddenly. My vision blurred at the edges, turning the venue’s dark corners into vibrating vignettes of shadow. The smell of the venue, stale beer, damp concrete, ozone, suddenly sharpened, became violently, aggressively present.
I dropped the bottle cap. It clattered plastic-bright against the riser.
"Zia?" Alfie’s voice from the stage. He was testing his vocal mic, handheld, pacing the lip of the stage like he always did. "You alright? Dropped something?"
"Fine," I rasped. My voice sounded wrecked. Wet.
I gripped the edge of the console. The metal was cool under my palms, but my skin felt like it was blistering.
Breath. Four in. Six out.
I tried to inhale, but the air was thick. Too thick. It tasted of them.
Blackberry and burnt sugar. Alfie.
Toasted oats and steam. Cal.
Espresso and molasses. Kit.
Hojicha tea and sesame. Euan.
I couldn't smell them, usually. I was scent-blind. It was my armor. My medical guarantee that I could exist in this industry without losing my mind.
But right now, my brain didn't seem to care that I was scent-blind. Instead all of their scents were suddenly there and strong.
A cramp seized me, hard enough to make me double over, forehead pressing against the fader bank. It wasn't just a cramp. It was a biological imperative screaming to be answered. A spike. A suppressant failure. A "suppressant wobble," the doctors called it politely.
In the real world, it felt like being doused in gasoline and waiting for a match.
Not here. Not now.
"Z?" Kit’s voice this time. Sharper. "She’s down. She’s on the desk."
"Movement," Euan said. I heard the click of a mic stand being set down. "Stage left."
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the heat haze.
They would come. They were Alphas. It was instinct.
They would smell the distress, a spike in Omega pheromones akin to a flare gun in a dark room, and they would rush the booth.
They would crowd me. They would surround me with their overwhelming, high-voltage presence, touching, soothing, "caretaking" with that suffocating arrogance that said I know what your body needs better than you do.
I tried to push myself up. My legs felt like water.
"Don't," I whispered to the empty air. "Don't come here."
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. For the heavy hands on my shoulders. For the voices dropping into that patronizing, possessive rumble. We’ve got you, pet. Just breathe. Let us handle it.
I braced for the invasion.
I waited.
And waited.
The sound of boots on the venue floor stopped.
Silence hung heavy in the massive room, broken only by the hum of the PA system.
I forced my eyes open.
The stage was empty.
Alfie, Kit, Euan. Gone.
I turned my head, neck stiff and aching with heat, to look at the tech wing. Cal was usually there, hovering with tea.
Gone.
I was alone in the venue bowl.
The doors to the backstage corridor stood wide open. I could see the light spilling from them. But the threshold was empty. No shadows crossing it. No silhouettes looming.
The silence wasn't rejection. It was... space. A vast, sudden vacuum of space created instantly, violently, for me.
Click.
The talkback system engaged. Not the booming main PA, but the near-field monitors right at my ears. The intimacy of it made me flinch.
"Status check," Alfie’s voice said.
But it wasn't his stage voice. It wasn't the "Alfie Riot" projection that commanded crowds of thousands. It was soft. Husky. The Yorkshire vowels flattened out, stripped of performance. It sounded like he was speaking with his forehead pressed against a wall, fighting for control.
"You good on your own," he asked, the words rough, "or d’you want Rowan?"
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
They left.
They smelled the spike, they must have, if I felt this bad, the air around me must be saturated with distress signals, and instead of claiming the space, they abandoned it.
They retreated.
"Rowan," I choked out. I didn't know if the talkback mic was latched. I hoped it was. "Meds. Please."
"Copy that," Alfie whispered.
The channel cut.
I slid down to the floor, putting the solid bulk of the mixing console between me and the rest of the world.
The concrete was cold against my legs. I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face in the oversized hoodie I was wearing.
It smelled faintly of sesame brittle. Euan’s. I hadn't even realized.
The scent didn't make me panic. It grounded me.
Four in. Six out.
I focused on the rhythm. On the silence.
They could be here in seconds. They were Alphas. Speed and strength were their currency. They could have vaulted the barrier, surrounded me, scented me, taken control of the biological disaster unfolding in my bloodstream.
But the stage remained empty.
Light footsteps clicked on the concrete. Not heavy boots. Trainers.
"Coming in," Rowan’s voice called out, clear and professional. "Just me. Eyes up, Z."
She rounded the corner of the Front of House booth. She looked immaculate as always, sharp blazer, pencil that doubled as a stylus behind her ear, but her eyes were scanning me with laser focus. She smelled of peppermint and graphite. Cool, clean, Beta neutrality.
She didn't coo. She didn't fuss. She knelt beside me, blocking the line of sight to the open doors, creating a privacy screen with her body.
"Level seven?" she asked, pulling a small, heavy case from her bag.
"Eight," I gasped. "It broke through. The blockers just... stopped."
"Right. Metabolism accelerated by the stress and the proximity." She popped the seal on a vile. It hissed. "Upgraded dose. Fast-acting. Drink."
I took the vial with shaking hands. It tasted like bitter lemons and chalk. I gagged, but forced it down.
Rowan handed me a water bottle, not mine, a fresh one, seal cracked. "Wash it down."
I drank. The cool liquid hit my stomach and the chemical reaction was almost instant. The fire in my veins began to recede, dialed down from a roar to a simmer. The blur at the edges of my vision sharpened back into focus.
"Better?" Rowan watched me, her hands resting on her knees, not touching me.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah. It’s... receding."
She nodded, efficient as ever. Then she reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a small, cream-colored envelope.
"Alfie wanted to run in here," she said, her voice low. "He made it about three feet before Kit tackled him and Euan locked the stage door. He wrote this while Cal was shouting at them to breathe."
She slid the envelope across the floor.
I stared at it. My name, Z, was scrawled on the front in black Sharpie. The handwriting was jagged, rushed.
I picked it up. My fingers felt numb, but steadying.
Inside was a piece of notebook paper, torn from a spiral binding. Just two lines.
No questions. Just solutions.
—A.
I read it twice.
No questions.
No "Why didn't you tell us?"
No "Are you sure you're okay?"
No "Let me help."
No demand for information. No demand for gratitude. No demand for access.
Just solutions.
They had removed the problem. The problem was them. Their scent, their presence, the biological pressure they exerted just by existing. So they removed it.
They vacated the room.
I looked up at the open doors of the venue. Beyond the light spill, I knew they were there. Probably pacing. Probably vibrating with the instinct to protect, to guard, to comfort.
But they stayed behind the line.
"They didn't come," I whispered. The realization felt fragile, like glass I was afraid to break.
"They wanted to," Rowan said dryly. "Desperately. I think Kit actually chewed through a drumstick. But the protocol is clear. Do-Nothing unless invited."
"They asked," I said, looking back at the note. "He asked if I wanted you. He didn't assume he was the answer."
"Alfie knows he's a lot of things," Rowan said, standing up and offering me a hand, palm up, waiting, not grabbing. "But he’s learning he’s not always the medicine."
I stared at her hand. Then I looked at the note again.
No questions. Just solutions.
I folded the paper carefully, creasing the edge with my thumbnail until it was sharp. I slid it into the pocket of my hoodie, right next to my phone.
I took Rowan’s hand and let her pull me up. My legs held. The heat was a dull throb now, manageable, boxed away behind the chemical wall of the upgrade.
"We're canceling soundcheck," Rowan stated. "Back to the bus. You're in the neutral zone for the next twelve hours."
"No," I said.
Rowan paused. "Zia, you just had a breakthrough spike."
"And the meds caught it. I'm functional." I turned back to the console. My mix layout was still on the screens. "If I leave now, I make it a capital T Thing. If I finish the calibration, it was just a medical moment."
Rowan studied me. She tapped the pencil against her temple. "You're stubborn."
"I'm a professional."
"Fine. But Cal is bringing you tea, and if your heart rate goes above 100 again, I'm pulling the plug and dragging you out myself."
"Deal."
She turned to leave, then stopped. "They're good lads, Z. Sometimes they're idiots, but they're good lads."
"I know," I said quietly.
She walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete.
I stood alone at the console.
I reached for the talkback button. My finger hovered over it.
I could just start working. I could ignore what just happened.
But the note burned in my pocket.
I pressed the button.
"Alfie," I said. My voice was steady. "Kit. Euan. Console is clear. We have fifteen minutes. Get back out here."
A pause.
Then, three distinct sounds of movement from the corridor, stumbling, hurried.
But Alfie's voice came through the stage monitors first. Not the soft, private voice. The bright, loud, golden-retriever energy voice, but laced with a relief so palpable it cracked the air.
"Copy that! Moving to position!"
They flooded back onto the stage.
They didn't look at me. Not directly.
Alfie grabbed his mic stand like it was a lifeline, knuckles white. He stared aggressively at the exit sign above my head.
Kit scrambled behind his drums, immediately busying himself with tightening a lug nut that definitely didn't need tightening.
Euan went straight to his loop station, crouching down to fiddle with a cable, putting his back to the house.
They were giving me visual space. They were keeping their eyes averted so I wouldn't feel watched.
I sat down in the high-backed chair, pulling my knees up, wrapping the scent of sesame brittle around me.
"That's a boundary," I muttered to myself.
The words felt heavy. Real.
I pulled out my phone. I bypassed the messages, the setlists, the technical riders. I opened the encrypted folder deep in my system files.
CONSENT PROTOCOL QUESTIONS
The document was a mess of bullet points and late-night panic thoughts.
? Can you negotiate instinct?
? Does biology override contract law?
I tapped a new line at the bottom. My thumbs moved quickly.
Observation: When the biological imperative said 'Invade,' they chose 'Retreat.'
Observation: Distance was the care gesture.
Question: If they can override the chase instinct for my safety... what else are they capable of controlling?
I looked up at the stage.
Alfie was singing a nonsense mic check, something about a postman and a cat, but his posture was rigid, angled away from me. He was protecting me from his own attention.
I typed one last line.
Hypothesis: They are rewriting the rules.
I locked the phone.
"Kick drum," I said into the mic. "Give me the thunder."
Kit hit the drum. It shook the floor. Somehow it wasn't just the floor that was shaken though, it was the foundations of everything I thought I knew about the Riot Theory boys.