Chapter 3
ADDICTED TO THE FREEDOM
JESSE
Emergence by Sleep Token
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Tommy’s voice ricochets off the concrete walls as he stares at the contents of the case Dylan just flipped open. He drops his drumsticks onto the snare with a crack.
Graffiti crawls up the walls, a symphony of tags beneath leaking pipes. The floor vibrates with perfect acoustics; the only reason Dylan chose this shithole for our rehearsal space. No connection to Stonewall. Complete anonymity.
“You already agreed to this,” I remind Tommy, guitar hanging heavy across my shoulder as my pulse hammers against my throat. “We’ve been planning this for weeks.”
“Agreeing to something in theory is different than—.” Tommy gestures wildly at the masks nestled in black velvet. “This is some creepy cult shit. We look like we’re about to sacrifice virgins, not play music.”
Stella leans forward from her bass stool, eyes flashing with mischief. “Oh perfect, Tommy. We finally found a use for you.”
“Don’t worry, Sugar Tits, I’ll be gentle,” Tommy teases.
“No need to be gentle,” Luke says, “this one has more miles than my Corolla.”
“Fuck off,” Stella gives her brother a hard enough push that he stumbles into his keyboard, then turns to Tommy. “And stop calling me Sugar Tits.”
“It’s a term of endearment,” Tommy feigns disappointment.
“Endear this.” She holds up her middle finger.
“She definitely wants to fuck me,” Tommy says to me, and I shake my head.
“Can we all pay attention?” Dylan scolds, arms crossed, clearly not in the mood for any of our theatrics. “The concept was clear from day one. We’re launching Silent Revenant tonight as an anonymous collective.”
“Yeah, but,”—Tommy runs a hand through his long hair, frustration radiating from his rigid posture—“now that it’s up close and in my face, I’m having serious second thoughts.”
“Says every woman who’s been with you when you flick on the light,” Stella says.
Tommy puts a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded. You know I’ve been saving myself for you.”
Stella rolls her eyes and then turns her attention to the case. “Stop being such a drama queen, Tommy. These look fucking incredible.”
The door to the rehearsal space swings open before Tommy can respond.
Rachel strides in, tablet clutched against her chest like a shield, expression suggesting she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Your wardrobe is here,” she announces, gesturing to the metal garment rack she’s wheeling in, black clothing hanging in precise order.
“And for the record, I draw the line at helping any of you into leather pants. That’s outside my job description—and my pay grade. ” She gives Dylan a pointed look.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Thank you, Rachel.”
Luke turns the mask over in his hands. “Comfortable?”
“Breathable,” Dylan confirms. “And they won’t interfere with singing or visibility, but no one can see your eyes.”
Rachel flips through screens on her tablet. “After extensive testing by yours truly, I can confirm you won’t suffocate on stage.” She wiggles her eyebrows. Dylan rolls his eyes. “Though,” she adds with a pointed look at Tommy, “some of you might benefit from less oxygen to the brain.”
“You’re hot in a MILF kinda way.” Tommy says, and then he turns his attention to Stella. “But I promise, my dick only has eyes for Sugar Tits.” He winks.
“That’s disturbing.” Stella walks away.
“Keep your dick away from my sister,” Luke says.
“Tonight is about the music,” I say, confidence threading through my voice for the first time. “Once we start playing, they’re gonna forget all about the masks.” Music in its purest form, without anything getting in the way.
Tommy paces in front of his drum kit. “I’ve spent years building a reputation in this scene. People come to shows because they know me, know what I can do.”
Stella steps forward, but I stop her with a look. I set my guitar down carefully and face him. “Remember why we started this band in the first place?”
“To play music, not to join a fucking masquerade,” Tommy snaps.
“No,” I say quietly, but with enough conviction that everyone goes still. “Because when the four of us played together that first night, something clicked. Something that had nothing to do with who we were or where we came from. It was the sound.”
Tommy looks away, but I can see his resistance wavering.
“The masks aren’t about hiding,” I continue. “They’re about removing everything that gets between the music and the audience. It’s not about self-recognition, it’s about recognition for the music.”
Tommy runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he mutters finally. “But if anyone laughs—”
“Then we’ll drown them out,” Luke interjects, surprising us all.
Stella rolls her eyes, already adjusting the straps on her mask. “Since when do you care what people think anyway? You wore a tie-dyed jumpsuit to that dive bar opening last month.”
“That was a fashion choice,” Tommy argues. “And you said it looked sexy.” He winks.
“I said you looked sketchy,” she says.
“It had one of the holes in the front for easy access in case you wanted a quickie in the bathroom,” Tommy motions to his crotch and chases Stella around the room. She lets out a high-pitched laugh when he catches her around the waist.
“Stop touching my sister with your grubby hands,” Luke warns.
Tommy sets her down, backing away from Luke. “That’s no way to talk to your future brother-in-law.”
Luke groans.
“In your dreams, Loverboy,” Stella quips.
“Every night, baby.”
“The venue is perfect,” Dylan says, bringing us back to the plan. “Dark as hell, intimate stage setup. No one who matters in the industry will be there, which means you can make mistakes without consequences. Tonight is just about testing the concept, seeing if the music connects.”
He pulls out his phone, swiping through his screens. “We have a strict protocol for arrival and departure. Masks on before you exit the vehicle, masks stay on until you’re back inside. No interacting with fans afterward.”
Tommy tucks his mask under his arm. “The whole secret agent routine seems excessive if this is just a one-off.”
“We have to think ahead, look at the big picture,” Dylan counters, his tone serious. “Protocol, always. No one breaks it. If you’re in, you’re in. This is why we had all of you sign NDAs.”
“Fine, I get it.” Tommy spins a drumstick between his fingers. “But if this bombs, I reserve the right to say I told you so, loudly and repeatedly.”
“If it bombs, we drop it,” I promise. “We’ll figure something else out.”
Tommy points the mask at Stella. “And I can find another use for this.” He gives her a wink and she returns it with a look of disgust.
“Jesus,” Luke murmurs beside me, adjusting his mask for the dozenth time. “Did you expect this many people?”
I shake my head, mouth too dry for words. My fingers tap against the guitar neck: pointer, middle, ring, pinkie, then reverse. The mask sits heavy against my skin, simultaneously a barrier and a promise of freedom.
Stella bumps her shoulder against mine, already vibrating with pre-show energy. “You good?”
I manage a nod, focusing on breathing. In for three, out for three. The rhythm steadies my pulse, grounds me in my body.
She squeezes my arm, understanding without needing explanation.
Tommy paces behind us, drumsticks tapping restlessly against his thigh. The mask hasn’t improved his mood.
Dylan approaches from the wings, practically bouncing on his toes.
“How did you manage to get this many people here on such short notice?” Luke asks, peering through the door.
“The buzz is insane,” Dylan reports. “People are already curious about who this mystery band could be. Everyone wants to be the first to discover something new.”
The ceiling tiles above me blur, twelve across, sixteen deep.
“Just wait until they actually hear you play.” His grin stretches wide. “No names, no backstory. Pure mystique.”
Rachel tucks her tablet under her arm. “Security knows the exit protocol. Cars are waiting at the back entrance. Absolutely no mingling after the show.” She taps a pen to Tommy’s mask. “And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone.”
Closing my eyes, I tap the familiar quiet rhythm against my guitar strings again: pointer, middle, ring, pinkie, reverse, focusing on the subtle vibration under my fingertips.
Stella grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her. “Look at me.” Her voice cuts through the growing static in my head. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“They hate it. They laugh. They film it, and it goes viral as the biggest disaster in music history.” The words tumble out, thoughts racing faster than I can process.
A snort of laughter escapes her. “And if that happens?”
“My career ends before it starts.”
“No,” she says firmly. “If that happens, we play another show somewhere else. And another after that. Until someone gets it.” Her fingers tighten on my shoulders. “You’re too talented to fail, Jesse. The mask just lets you prove it without all the baggage.”
Rachel appears at my elbow. “Don’t fuck this up,” she says loudly.
“Great, thanks,” I say dejectedly.
Dylan claps a hand on my shoulder. “Ready to become someone else?”
“Ready to become myself,” I correct him quietly.
We take our positions in the darkness of the stage, hearing the whispers from the crowd. My heart thunders so loudly I’m certain it’s audible over the PA system. The mask presses against my skin, simultaneously confining and liberating.
The crowd noise fades to expectant murmurs. Through the darkness, I find my mark, guitar a familiar weight against my body.
Stella’s fingers coax the opening bass line.
When the lights go up confused murmurs ripple through the audience.
Someone laughs nervously. A few heads turn toward the bar, as if checking whether they’ve had too much to drink.
No one seems quite sure how to react to the masked figures emerging from darkness.