15-Zach - Eight Months Ago
(January fifth, twenty twenty-five)
Three million.
Three million views on my latest Somnium edit. My heart stops then restarts, like pumping the brakes.
The god said this would happen. He feels like a memory I shouldn’t have, and yet the moment he appears in my dreams, I know him the way I know the shape of my own shadow. It’s unhinged to admit, but I can’t deny the truth.
Every step I’ve taken, each video I’ve made, all the late-night spirals into editing and lore digging, it all traces back to him. Following the god’s thread led me to Somnium.
And it changed everything.
I went to three of Somnium’s West Coast shows last summer. The opening night in LA was a week after my interview with Daemonium, and I paid way too much for a resale pit ticket. But the moment the lights went down and the first low drone rolled through the venue, I knew I would’ve paid twice.
They’re not concerts; they’re sacraments.
Watching Judas step onstage felt like a myth come to life, bridging the waking world and whatever’s beneath it.
The crowd didn’t scream; they rose like a tide towed by a second moon.
I filmed everything I could; shaky footage from the pit, wide shots from the nosebleeds, close-ups of their sigils glowing on the screens, then stitched it into a series of edits.
Every time I hear them I feel thunderstorms; a charged stillness right before the sky splits open. It isn’t music, it’s invocation. The deeper I dig, the worse, or better, it gets. Their harmonies are enchanting, and the lyrics read like scripture.
I mapped out the phases of the moon in their setlist, the runic patterns hidden in their visuals, and the way Judas’s mask cracks a little more with each album like it’s telling a story only the devoted can read.
It added more shape and texture to an already-convoluted lore.
And the more I uncover, the more it feels like the lore uncovers me.
The deeper I dig into Somnium, the more intentional everything becomes. Masks are archetypes. Terminology isn’t fan slang, it’s ritual language. Their visuals are coded messages dressed as aesthetic. People devour it, saying I made Somnium bigger, like I uncovered something the band buried.
Though a part of me thinks it’s meant to be found.
Fans don’t just like Somnium. They worship them, using words like ascend, devotion, praise, the veil, and chosen in relation to them. It’s almost occult, but in a magnetic, not dangerous, sort of way. Still, part of me wonders what it’s doing to me—how deep I’ve already sunk.
I fell for it. Hard. Not because I was lonely, though I was. Or because I was grieving, but hey, if the shoe fits. Maybe it’s a combination of a lot of things, but I choose to believe it’s because they remind me of home; an echo of a memory before me or Arcadia, older than this life.
My fingers drift to the necklace resting against my collarbone. Inside, Nicole’s ashes shimmer like stardust.
Officer Reyes found me shaking and covered in blood, ready to die. But he stayed beside me, put this vial around my neck, and with determination, told me I’d be okay. I can’t help but think she was right beside him; my guardian angel. Now I wear her with me always.
I’d seen pictures from years back of Judas wearing the same necklace, or one so close that my breath caught when I noticed it. It’s the same size and shape, with a similar glint as it catches the stage lights.
I told myself it’s a coincidence; that Reyes is a fan of the aesthetic and found a duplicate. Though it felt like another sign pointing me toward Somnium, like the universe linked a string between us long before I followed it. Maybe that’s ridiculous, and I’m reading too much into it.
But when something mirrors your grief so precisely, it’s hard not to believe it means something.
I tried to return it to him after the crash, when he came to visit me in the hospital, but Reyes refused, calling it a beacon; a way to hold onto hope and keep the dead close.
As a way to honor that, after my attempt, I poured out some of the sparkly silver dirt and mixed in a pinch of Nicole’s ashes.
I wear it every day, touch it every hour, praying to it without meaning to.
The memory leaves a pressure in my chest that the room can’t hold.
The apartment’s too small for its expansion, not that it’s big to begin with. It’s got exposed brick and leaky pipes, a single window overlooking the alley, and the perma-scent of incense that clings to everything no matter how often I air the place out.
In an attempt to ground myself, I sit cross-legged on the hardwood.
My laptop rattles on the coffee table, the screen paused on the last frame of my viral video; a close-up of Judas’s current mask, the scarlet devil-face with a cracked cheek and the faint shimmer of silver beneath the netted sockets.
I tap the spacebar and music fills the room again. Goosebumps rise across my flesh as I close my lids. This isn’t normal. Music isn’t supposed to feel like this.
When I open my eyes again, the video has reached the montage that people are clipping then multiplying faster than mitosis.
It turned me from a niche editor into a brief phenomenon.
I built my brand for this moment. For the chance to speak to the man behind Judas.
My heart races, fingers trembling as I close my laptop and grab my bag.
I need to get this out before it swallows me.
My pulse spikes, a jittery electricity crawling under my skin.
Burnt popcorn and stale piss flood the hallway. My boots thud against the stairs as I practically fly down them to get outside. The city’s alive with buzzing neon signs, cars honking, and the pulse of nightlife. Exhaust and winter wind hang in the breeze, abrasive enough to sting my lungs.
I jog to my car and slide behind the wheel, the torn leather seat sticking to my thighs.
The City of Angels blurs past as streetlights stretch into gold streaks.
Pedestrians straggle along the boulevard, bundled in puffy jackets even though it’s fifty degrees.
There’s a busker on the corner playing guitar, his voice drifting through the cracked window.
I press my necklace to my lips, the cool glass grounding me. Reyes called it a beacon, but tonight, it’s a custom-programed compass.
By the time I reach Livewire studio, I’m a lit fuse. Lemon cleaner floats through the lobby, meaning Carl must’ve mopped recently. I jab the elevator button and step inside, the metal doors sliding shut with a whistling hiss. The elevator hums as it rises, the floor vibrating beneath my boots.
When the doors open, I launch myself down the hallway, weaving past interns carrying stacks of papers and assistants balancing late-night coffees like they’re performing a circus act. Neil’s office is only half closed, so I shove it open.
“This is it,” I blurt out, holding my phone like I’m presenting him with the Holy Grail.
Neil raises his head, brows shooting up behind his smudged glasses. “Sorry, hold on.” He cups the bottom of his phone, jade eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re not gonna leave me alone, are ya?”
I shake my head, and he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Let me call you back, yeah?” He hangs up and leans forward, fingers laced together, elbows on the desk. “What’s got you acting like a chihuahua on crack? You’re not drinking again, are ya? Thought you were staying sober.”
“I am, you ass.” I slap my phone onto his desk and slide it toward him. “Look.”
He lifts his glasses and squints at the screen. “What am I looking at?”
“The biggest potential documentary this studio has ever seen.” My voice shakes with adrenaline.
I point to the video. “This is Somnium. They just announced an upcoming single, which means a fifth album, which means an upcoming tour. I need to be on that tour, Neil. This is the exclusive I’ve been building toward for years.
And if these numbers show you anything, it’s that there’s a demand. ”
“Wow.” Neil leans back in his chair, whistling low as he no doubt notices the climbing viewership. “You’re really sparked up about this, huh?”
“Trust me,” I say firmly. “Get a hold of Richie Dick at DHR records and do whatever it takes to get this done. This exclusive is going to change everything.”